


Saudade

by The_Necessity_of_Darkness



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A study in apology, Abuse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Big Brother Mycroft, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Addiction, Eventual Johnlock, FLUFF EVENTUALLY, Graphic Depictions of Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, John finally gets his head out of his ass, Learning self-care, Lots of healing, M/M, Mofftiss did Molly dirty, Mostly Canon Compliant, My tags keep emphasizing without my permission, Post Season 4, Recovery, Relapse, Self-Betterment, Self-Loathing, Sherlolly friendship, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Therapy, Two oblivious men who can’t communicate, Vomiting, Vulnerable Sherlock, Withdrawal, miscommunication to the MAX
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2020-07-12 13:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19946710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Necessity_of_Darkness/pseuds/The_Necessity_of_Darkness
Summary: Whatever Sherlock and John had once been, they were not anymore.But perhaps they could become more.





	1. Nostalgia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This starts at the end of The Final Problem. Any comments, criticism, feedback, or suggestions are welcomed and encouraged!

“I don’t want to fight,” said Sherlock, feeling threadbare and tattered, already sensing John’s rising ire. He had almost lost his best friend—the last thing he wanted was to argue over trivialities and semantics. He just wanted for his friend to shower, have a safe place to stay, and be able to care for his daughter. He didn’t think that was much to ask, and he wasn’t sure why John would be disagreeable to any of those wants. It seemed like he wanted to be disagreeable merely for the sake of it. “Let’s just get you and Rosie somewhere safe.”

John looked at Sherlock as if he didn’t even know him anymore. “Right,” he said, eyes edging towards the ground. His voice sounded far away and foreign. “You’re right. Sorry.”

The cab ride home was excruciating. John said nothing of his experience in the well, and Sherlock didn’t dare ask about it. The cabbie looked at Sherlock in the mirror occasionally, seeming like he didn’t know why these two blokes were taking a cab together to begin with. It was as close to a slap in the face as a look could be. It seemed to say, _Why do you even try anymore? You and John, that’s an archaic, dead thing. He blames you for Mary’s death. He blames you for endangering him, for badly influencing Rosie._

It was preposterous that so much could lay in a single unspoken gaze from a complete stranger. Surely Sherlock was in simple shock.

They stopped at Baker Street first. The vehicle pulled up to the kerb, the familiar 221B gleaming faintly in the moonlight. It seemed to beckon him as much as it seemed to dissuade him. John was looking at the knocker as if it were something more—as if there was some answer to the world’s unanswerable questions in the curve of the metal. Still, however, he didn’t speak. Silence seemed to strangle him.

“Will you be alright?” said Sherlock, surprised at himself for asking.

John’s brows furrowed and his mouth grew taut. “No, I don’t think I will,” he said, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. Something like steel was infused in his voice.

Sherlock opened the car door as if to put a barrier between himself and John, as if the action could act as a buffer to prevent an argument from arising. He looked at John, rigid in his seat, strategically avoiding his gaze. His whole anatomy collectively screamed his discomfort. Sherlock wondered when John had started being reserved with him, when his best friend had begun keeping secrets, holding grudges, refraining from praising him. Was it fair of him to wonder any of that at all?

Sherlock was surprised when he realized that he missed John, even though he was right in from of him. When had he lost his best friend? How had he let that happen?

“Oh,” said Sherlock, unsure how to proceed. It was hard to deal with other people’s feelings when he could barely contain the avalanche of his own. His wrists itched, as if the blood in his veins was toxic.

John said nothing in response.

“We’ll talk later?” asked Sherlock, hating how he had to phrase it as a question, wondering when John had become so distant that the answer was no longer an immediate _yes_ —when he had become so tentative in his relationship with John that he couldn’t predict the answer on his own.

“Yeah,” said John, finally, to which Sherlock sagged with immense relief. “Yes,” he repeated, almost as if to solidify the promise to himself. “We’ll talk later.”

Sherlock nodded and finally shut the car door. He watched as the car peeled away from the kerb and sped off into the night.

* * *

Later apparently meant _very_ later.

Two weeks went by before John visited Sherlock at Baker Street, little Rosie tucked in his arms.

Sherlock ignored how John’s visit seemed to be borne only from necessity rather than desire; how John had only turned to Sherlock’s company as a last resort; how when Rosie seemed to toddle, John didn’t trust him to watch her; how nothing seemed to be the same; how his best friend had managed to slip through his fingers like water; how whenever he thought of their relationship in the past, the present one seemed like some miserable approximation in comparison—some parody of it, taunting, jeering.

“How’ve you been?” said John, stiffly, without much warmth or any intimation at caring to hear a proper answer.

“Fine,” Sherlock lied. He yearned for something he couldn’t quite define.

Rosie’s pudgy arms reached towards him, and although once John would have passed her off to him with familiar warmth and genuine fondness, he now pulled her more closely into his chest.

“And how’ve you been, Watson?” said Sherlock, pushing aside the sting and instead smiling at her bubbly face.

She gurgled as means of response, giggling slightly at Sherlock’s broad smile, of which she seemed especially fond. John seemed to retract her, impossibly, even further into himself.

“That’s good,” said Sherlock gently, though his smile faltered. “Only the best for such a smart cookie.”

John nodded like he agreed, though Sherlock felt they were agreeing about very little. He ignored his own discomfort—how John seemed irrevocably foreign. The way he paced around Baker Street as if it were a museum exhibit, hadn’t been his home for years.

“So,” John finally said, after several moments of uncomfortable silence had passed. Sherlock straightened in response, cocking his head in indication that he was listening. “I have a favor.”

Sherlock could barely conceal his surprise. “Oh,” he said with interest. “Anything,” he said, sincerity bleeding into his voice. Anything for family, mused Sherlock. He had told John he was family, hadn’t he? So why did he seem more distant than when they’d first met, when they had been simple strangers, barely flat mates, and only tentatively friends?

John shifted on his feet, readjusting Rosie’s position on his hip. “Well,” he said with a certain finality, although he hadn’t even started, “I’ve been alone with Rosie for the past couple weeks and…” There was an inarticulacy to his thoughts, mirrored by a seeming unease and incompetence in his movements. He fluttered about the flat, toying with the edge of the fireplace mantle, scuffing his foot against the carpeted floor. “And...now that Mary is,” he paused, then waved his hand in an all-encompassing gesture, “y’know...The house has been very lonely and, frankly, I can’t afford to be there without her, and…” He trailed off, looking lost and perturbed.

Something ached deeply inside Sherlock’s chest. “You’re always welcome here,” said Sherlock.

John’s expression softened. A breathy laugh exited his throat. “Thank you,” he said, sounding sincere. His voice was touched with gratitude and warmth, and sounded hauntingly like John’s voice once had when he and John had lived together once, without Mary, without Rosie, and without grief. “I don’t have much furniture, but I’m bringing a child into this now.” His expression became gravely serious, as if he expected Sherlock not to know the situation’s gravitas without some physical manifestation of it. “Will that be alright with you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He didn’t voice his offense, that John’s insinuation stung him deeply. “I adore little Watson.”

The last of John’s unease seemed to melt away, but a sense of detached professionalism still seemed to cling to him. “Good, that’s good,” he said, awkwardly shuffling. “Alright. It might not be for a bit, still stuff to...sort out. Y’know, demons as they say…” He laughed uncomfortably.

Sherlock swallowed, feeling dry mouthed suddenly. His heart settled in his throat. “Yes, I understand, take your time.”

* * *

Initially Sherlock had chalked up the uneasy amount of tension between he and John to geographical inconvenience. After all, John, Mary, and Rosie had lived in a house on the other side of town. They had jobs and their own obligations—Rosie was only a child and didn’t need to be transported and jostled from one edge of town to the other simply because Sherlock desired it. He thought, perhaps, that the physical distance had thrown a wrench in their communication. They both had separate obligations to tend to, and had fallen off somewhere along the way.

However, once John and Rosie had settled into Baker Street, there was something about it that Sherlock couldn’t quite place that bothered him still.

John’s presence began to once again fill up the flat: his coat hanging on the hook by the front doorway; Rosie’s toys nestled in the corner of the living room; the collection of vintage CDs stacked on the end table; baby formula occupying the pantry; schmaltzy romance novels tucked in the bookshelf; every item of John’s was a staunch reminder that he was back physically—but what Sherlock couldn’t convince himself of was John’s actual presence—not just the tangibility of his furniture, but his mental and emotional existence within the flat.

When he and John had lived together years ago, there had been a comfortable quietude in the morning. John would make tea for the both of them, and they would sit in the living room together, preoccupied with their own devices.

John only made tea for himself now. He drank it at the kitchen table, head bowed against the cool granite top, as if mentally preparing himself for the moment Rosie deigned to wake up crying.

Sherlock quietly lamented the distance between them. He lassoed John with mental ropes, urging him closer. He cast a neuron net over his figure, concentrated so wildly on hauling him closer. What had changed, thought Sherlock, _why can’t you even look at me?_ He yearned for John’s hand on his shoulder, John’s eyes focused solely on his. It was selfish, his _wanting._ He had always wanted, hadn’t he—before Mary and Rosie? God, he had wanted so badly to reach out his quivering hands and run them reverentially over John’s face, to breathe his name like a prayer.

There had once been a time where, maybe, _maybe_ , that could have happened. Before he faked his death, before John moved on, perhaps. All Sherlock knew for certain was that it could not happen now.

* * *

Sherlock had hoped John could slyly reinsert himself into the narrative of their life together, that the transition would be easy and carefree, like their interactions used to be. Of course, as per usual, Sherlock was denied simple pleasures.

It used to be that John and he had a mutual look. John would look at Sherlock, and somehow both would know what it meant. The same raised eyebrows and pinched mouth could be discontented or amused or exhausted, and the subtle nuances were burned into Sherlock’s mind. He would hand John the morning paper without being told; John would make him breakfast and set it on the table, or hand him his phone without being asked; Sherlock would place Post-It notes on the containers in the fridge so John would know which were leftovers and which were experiments. They used to peacefully coexist.

Silences were comfortable and common. John would sit in his armchair, scanning the morning paper, tapping his foot to some melody which was stuck in his head as he sipped his mug of Earl Grey. Sherlock would lay on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, tucked away in his Mind Palace reviewing some recent case.

They had been so close that people often assumed they were a couple. They worked in a steady push-pull fashion, give and take. John would push Sherlock to talk about his feelings, and when he received snarls and disdain, he would pull back. Sherlock would deduce something about John which was particularly raw and painful, to which he would hastily backtrack.

One night John would go shopping, the next Sherlock would take up the responsibility. Sherlock would order takeaway and John would pick it up. One would get sick and the other would take care of him. It was a precarious balancing act, with an unspoken precipice. It was such an undefinable thing that most people who met them could never quite put it into words, or at least not ones which even managed to do it justice.

Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock.

They had become grafted together, inseparable. One couldn’t exist without the other. To only say one’s name was to elicit that vaguely unsettling feeling like one had missed something quite obvious and quite pertinent; like there was something you were forgetting, right on the tip of the tongue.

Sherlock wondered how long it would take to fall back into step with one another—to return to whatever they had been, whatever they were before. Sherlock had no way to put their relationship into words, no way to quantify or qualify or explain, but he recognized that whatever they had been once, they hadn’t been in quite some time.

He missed it. It had taken losing it to realize how much he had felt at home then.

Yes, Sherlock lay now, alone on the couch. The refrigerator hummed; early morning sunlight blurred through the window; the floorboards creaked as the flat settled; and Sherlock was cold.

John had been distant for some time. Sherlock felt like an outside observer in the inner workings of his own life. He prepared tea in the morning with shaking fingers, pushed the mug into John’s hands, to which he was only thanked stiffly. He held Rosie until she fell asleep against his hip, swaying around the flat, to which John merely watched. He rarely spoke to John unless spoken to, for fear that something he said would push him off some unspoken precipice. It felt dreadfully like walking on eggshells. It seemed imperative that he do _something_ but he couldn’t decide _what_ to do. Having no other alternative, he delegated the ball to John’s court.

Often times, when the uneasy tension constricted his throat and stung his eyes, he went out alone on a case to loosen the noose. John didn’t even seem to mind.

“Lestrade needs me,” Sherlock would say, flicking up the collar of his coat like he always used to.

“Fine, that’s fine,” John would say, not even looking up from his newspaper, or Rosie’s baby food, or whatever trinket had captured his attention.

Once, John would have gotten offended at any insinuation of being left behind to banalities and domesticity. He would have jumped at the chance to come with Sherlock on some intriguing adventure or go to Scotland Yard.

“Okay,” Sherlock always said, hiding the dejectedness behind his popped collar. John never looked anyway, or at least not long enough to catch the lonely, desperate look. Not enough to see the _Ask me to stay_ etched in Sherlock’s features.

Sherlock shook himself as if he could dislodge the shards of memory, then rolled over, tucking his arms into his stomach. The duvet was draped over his emaciated form. He had given John his room so both he and Rosie could have their own beds. It was fine, Sherlock thought, sleeping on the sofa was an old friend. Before John, he had often occupied the couch rather than a bed, feeling some strange comfort in the fireplace mantle and the large bay window. His room had never been his own anyway. It was a place to sleep, but it wasn’t a home.

Sometimes, in the quiet of early morning, something snarled under his skin. It felt like an old friend, like muscle memory, like sinking into a warm bath, or returning home after a long day. It was a feeling he remembered quite clearly, one which had imprinted itself in his mind and which he couldn’t shake. He watched his veins in the faint sliver of light which shone through the drawn curtains. Blues and greens slithered along alabaster, prominent, pulsing. They seared and ached, and something in Sherlock’s chest opened up like a chasm with wanting. Something primal and intimate surged in his abdomen.

Smack. God, Sherlock thought, when was the last time he had gotten _good_ smack? Not since he’d gotten clean—rather, since Lestrade had forced him into NA.

There was one lady at those meetings, he remembered, who always complained about her children. How misbehaved they were, how she sometimes wanted to strangle them, sometimes went into the bathroom and had forgotten why she’d gone, only to remember she used to escape and do drugs there in her youth. Another man had lamented about how when he watched the telly, it felt like he was putting the newscaster off. How he cut rails of sugar with a spoon and stared at it for several beats too long before remembering that, of course, it wasn’t coke.

It wasn’t so long ago when he had related to them. He hadn’t touched smack for what must’ve been eleven years now, Sherlock thought. He and Lestrade had made a deal—if Sherlock got clean and attended his regular Narcotics Anonymous meetings, and didn’t relapse, Lestrade would give him cases with Scotland Yard.

It had been hard. No, it had been _excruciating._ Smack and speed and coke had been the only thing that made him feel okay. To have that security ripped away, and to have to share that feeling of devastation at some silly meeting, with a striking inarticulacy reminiscent of a newborn, among stupid people he loathed, was absolutely _horrid_. He had gotten Mrs. Hudson to promise to properly dispose of his hidden stash, had taken up frivolous hobbies to quell the intense ache which had emerged from the lack of high.

Of course, all that work and effort and Sherlock had still managed to relapse several times throughout his acquaintanceship with John. He hadn’t resorted to the use of heroin again, not since just before those first NA meetings, but he had used morphine and cocaine, even a bit of speed. John had found him a few of the times—he’d gotten angry, disappointed. Sherlock was a difficult person after all. It was a miracle John had managed to tolerate him so long.

Yes, he’d had his fair share of relapses, but he hadn’t wanted a hit so dearly as he did now in a very long time. He wondered if the rush might be different now than it had been just a few months ago—when he’d used in the aftermath of Mary’s death. If, perhaps, his veins would remember the surge of pleasure, or if they might simply collapse at anymore stress; if the euphoria was as captivating as he remembered.

Experiencing the rapture of a heroin high made sober life gravely miserable. Once one has experienced the rush of smack in their veins, the overwhelming surge of pleasure—the feeling of being whole, safe, warm, happy—anything other than that feeling seems to never be enough. Life after heroin could never be the same as it had been before it. Even starting in the first place was something Sherlock regretted deeply, even when he had still been shooting up. Every time he succumbed to his urges, or couldn’t overcome withdrawal, or bought more smack, shame nipped at the edges of his mind. The only thing that made that shame abate and settle was the high. It was a vicious cycle: feel guilty for doing drugs, take drugs not to feel guilty, then go through withdrawal wanting drugs again.

He still had dealers he could contact—even despite that after every relapse, Mycroft tried to goad him into severing contact with enablers of his “disease.” His homeless network ran deep, and much of the drugs he had scored back at his worst were from them. He had enough money saved up somewhere, he thought, enough to score just a few grams of coke and a few syringes.

No smack, he swore as he staggered off the couch, preening at his immense self-control.

He sheathed his arms in his overcoat, hastily slipped into his slippers, and dove for his reserve of cash hidden in a loose piece of the fireplace mantle. He made sure to tread lightly as to not wake John or Rosie from their slumber. For good measure, he left a note on the kitchen counter saying that Lestrade had needed him to swing by for a case. That was believable, Sherlock thought, although he couldn’t help looking anxiously upstairs and straining to hear any noise.

“Fuck,” he said, shame and desire warring within him.

He was about to break his sobriety. Again. His very tentative, only several month long sobriety.


	2. Euphoria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit drug use in this chapter, and heavy use of cursing.
> 
> Just as a general precursor, I’ve never done drugs and (hope) I never will, but I tried to make this information as accurate as possible. I also am in no way attempting to glamorize or romanticize drugs—actually quite the opposite.

A cab sidled up to the kerb, and Sherlock vaulted himself inside, mind scratching itself raw. Thoughts hammered inside his head as if he was running around inside a hamster wheel, moving ceaselessly but never progressing forward—changing his footing but never gaining any ground.

“Take me to Loretta’s supermarket,” said Sherlock, pressing himself against the window pane of the back seat.

The cabbie glanced at him fleetingly before flicking his turn signal and edging his way onto the road. “Are you sure?” he said, side eyeing Sherlock with a shifty, hesitant gaze. “That place is trouble,” he continued.

“I’m counting on it,” said Sherlock, looking stubbornly out the window. He avoided the cabbie’s stare, which he could feel piercing the back of his head. “Just take me there.” Impatience and desperation flooded his voice. He clenched his hands so tightly into fists that his fingernails imprinted purplish crescent-shaped welts in his skin.

“Okay, man,” said the cabbie.

What seemed to be an agonizing amount of time later, though in actuality was less than fifteen minutes, the cab pulled up to the kerb adjacent to the grocery store. Sherlock staggered from the car, practically throwing a wad of pound notes at the cabbie, who received the surplus of money with beaming appreciation.

Immediately upon exiting the vehicle, the cabbie sped off, seemingly intimidated by the small crowd of people encroaching on the store. The building’s foundation was relatively sound, but the store front was only austerely and simply furnished. The doorbell rang occasionally as passersby came in and out. The walls of the shop were cracked, vine-like weeds poking through spaces between bricks. Several people hovered on the sidewalk, many never actually entering the establishment. Not too far off, three men were slanted against the window front.

“How you doing?” said one of the men. He wore a tattered leather jacket and had his hands out of sight. His eyes were abnormally sunken-in, skin sallow, greasy hair held back in a ponytail.

It was obvious he was fingering a pocket knife in his jacket pocket. Sherlock, despite the immediate realization, somehow felt totally detached. The man posed a threat—surely he would actually stab someone if he felt cornered—but Sherlock felt only a startling impatience to get false pleasantries out of the way and get on with business.

“As well as I can be, I suppose,” said Sherlock. “Though I’d be better if you didn’t stick me, thanks.”

The man seemed simultaneously surprised and pleased. “Ah,” he said at last, as if remembering some long lost piece of information. “You’re that Holmes guy, right? Clever, very clever. Wouldn’t have taken you for a junkie.”

Sherlock bristled, mind buzzing now with impatience and vexation. “As much as I’d love to chat about your assumptions, I’m rather trying to shoot up at the moment. Is Klaas around?”

The man smiled toothily. “Name’s Andre. I’ll take you to him.”

Sherlock followed Andre through the narrow alleyway behind the supermarket. There, tucked behind a dumpster, was a door on which he knocked. After a moment, the lock clicked and Andre swung the door open.

They entered a dimly lit room. The wooden steps creaked as their feet shuffled upstairs. Cobwebs shone in the corners of the ceiling. A mustard yellow armchair was nestled in the corner of the second floor, fabric threadbare and faded, and on the chair sat Klaas. His feet were propped up on the arm of the chair, body contorted like a rag doll. His chalky blue eyes gazed out at the nebulous skyline. The groaning floorboards alerted him of Andre and Sherlock’s incoming presence, and the blue eyes shifted from the first newcomer to the second. They squinted with suspicion before widening with recognition as the clouds seemed to lift.

“Sherlock,” said Klaas, voice oddly reverent. “A pleasure to see you again. Where’ve you been? It’s been a while.”

“Sober,” Sherlock said, giving a gentle half-shrug. “Or trying to be, anyway.”

He looked around at several other addicts who littered the room. Some were nestled on the sofa, faces smashed into the cushions, comatose due to drugs; others were strewn on the floor, or slanted against walls, murmuring. One couple, a man and a woman, stood pressed against a window on the opposite side of the room. The man’s trousers hung low on his waist, and the woman’s blouse was disheveled. The man was tittering happily, skinny and small, slumped against his wife’s broad shoulders. They both stared out at the skyline, taking turns smoking a quickly dying cigarette.

“I was in NA and everything, at one point,” said Sherlock with a little scoff. He patted his inside coat pocket and removed a yellow envelope. “12 step program, weekly meetings, relapse prevention plans—the whole shebang.”

Klaas shifted in his seat, hooking his leg over the edge. “Dreadful business,” he deadpanned. He lounged like a feline, eyes flickering from Sherlock to Andre, at whom Klaas nodded before he walked to the edge of the room.

“Actually,” said Sherlock, quieting for a moment, “it was...it was quite nice.” Another wave of nausea and guilt assaulted him, weighing in his stomach like a litter of drowned kittens. It felt as if he had been forced to eat a collection of rocks, which had sunk to the bottom of his cavernous stomach and settled there. “But it just...hasn’t been working for me anymore.” He grimaced, teasing apart the envelope and peeling out a collection of pound notes. Now that the coke was so close, his skin was singing with want, searing. He pushed aside the rising fountain of guilt, instead honing his tunnel-vision, focusing only on the desire to get high.

“How much for an eight ball?” said Sherlock.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you them with a discount—£150 each.”

Sherlock gasped theatrically. “Your generosity never ceases to amaze me.” He doled out £450, saying, “I’ll take three.” After careful deliberation, he said, “How much per gram?”

“Only £90.”

He slipped another £180 from the envelope and handed it to Klaas. “Two of those.”

“Smack is only £250 per gram.”

Sherlock winced, subconsciously rubbing a hand over the crook of his elbow, where the antecubital vein resided beneath his overcoat. “No smack.”

“No speedball then? Speed?”

Sherlock shook his head, chest internally puffing with pride at his own _stellar_ self-control.

“Alright,” said Klaas, handing over the items: three eight balls of coke and two one-gram baggies. 12.5 grams of cocaine—that should be enough for a few days worth of highs. The thought of amphetamine sulfate flashed briefly across his mind, as did the alluring image of heroin, but he tamped down his desire stubbornly. Only coke, thought Sherlock, _smack is off limits_.

“Thank you,” he said, tucking the plastic bags in his inner coat pocket. “It’s been a pleasure as always.”

Klaas nodded, a small smile plastered on his face. His teeth were yellow and rotting, one canine missing from his top row. “Anything for a loyal customer. Don’t go buying on the streets, now. Anything you need, I have.” He patted Sherlock on the shoulder before walking towards several men over in the far corner of the room.

Sherlock watched him leave with a growing sense of distress. The baggies were burning a hole in his coat pocket. All he needed now was a syringe and a bathroom; he spotted a woman sitting in a rickety chair by the far window, a smattering of syringes littered behind her.

“How much?” He gestured impatiently at the syringes as he approached.

She surveyed him. “One gram,” she said finitely, without pause, voice brokering no argument. She indicated towards Klaas, as if referring to the coke she’d seen Sherlock buy.

Sherlock, desperate at this point, quickly growing restless, tossed a baggie at her impatiently and quickly snatched up two syringes—parting with one gram was well worth the equipment.

He stumbled blearily into the direction of the bathroom, which he had still somehow remembered the location of despite he hadn’t entered this den in over a decade. It was amazing how the brain chose certain things to remember.

There was something hauntingly familiar and vaguely disquieting about the faint flickering of the cubicle, the blurred lights that illuminated the tiles only slightly. He remembered in the early days of sobriety, wandering into the bathroom and forgetting why he’d come— _you don’t do drugs anymore_ —only to remember he had to take a piss.

He never thought he’d have to resort to this again. Of course, hadn’t he said that after every relapse? This was just another in a long list of failures.

Sherlock shed his overcoat and wrenched his left sleeve up, tightening the cuff above the crook of his elbow. His veins bulged in the curve of his arm, glowing faintly blue in the overhead fluorescent lights. Even despite the dim lighting, he could pick up the faded scars from past injections, discolored circles in the skin superimposed over spidery veins.

He set his silver spoon, which he had grabbed before leaving Baker Street, on the kitchen sink. He then took a one gram baggie and tapped it gently, grains of white powder sprinkling into the spoon like a funnel. Once just enough was settled, he pulled a water bottle—another item which he had brought from home—out of his pocket and swirled some into the powder, crushing up the larger lumps. He then took the lighter from his pocket and ignited a flame just below the spoon. Fire licked and danced around the already blackened metal, waving about in a circular motion. After several lingering, almost agonizing seconds, the solution began to boil as it grew hot. He removed the heat source and dropped a cigarette filter into the solution; he promptly stuck the needle into the filter and sucked the cocaine solution into the syringe.

For good measure, he upended the syringe and flicked the barrel gently, then tapped raptly at his arm in order to coax his veins into view; the old track marks were a fine enough indication, but he was too impatient to be able to deal with a missed vein at the moment. He pumped his left arm up and down, clenching and unclenching his fist in an even greater attempt at enticing the veins into view. Needle positioned, poised just above the most prominent vein, Sherlock bit his lip in equal parts anticipation and dread. With practiced precision, he aimed the needle and pricked it gently into the exposed vein. Globules of blood curled inside the barrel and, without further ado, Sherlock pressed down the plunger.

Sherlock could sense the exact moment the solution entered his bloodstream. His heart beat frantically against his ribcage, caught somewhere in his throat. The rush assailed him like the harsh yet invigorating words of an ex-lover. His body sang as the familiar euphoria inundated him. Warmth flooded into his face, curling throughout his limbs. It was a bit beleaguering, but the rush felt even better than he remembered—like visiting a dear friend after not having seen him for many years. Like a soldier returning home from war; like a fire growing larger with a steady swell of oxygen.

Before he lost his resolve, he flushed the syringe in the sink. The cocaine coursed through his veins, slithering along his arms. Sweat beaded on his brow, matted hair slicked to his forehead. He shook with the overwhelming rapture pulsing in his head. The syringe clattered into the sink basin as another intense bout of almost dizzying euphoria flashed through him.

“Oh, fuck,” he purred, bowing against the vanity. Goosebumps raised along the nape of his neck. Before he lost his balance, he bumped his legs into the old and cracked porcelain loo, then collapsed on it. Head in his hands, he pulled gently at his hair, moaning slightly with the cocaine thrumming through his veins. _God_ , thought Sherlock, how had he ever managed to stop _doing this_? How did he manage to return to sobriety, however tentatively, after each relapse? How had he managed to get clean in the first place?

Every one of his worries seemed to melt away. John’s indifference and Mary’s death, Eurus’s betrayal and Moriarty’s existence—nothing existed in this moment but fire in his veins. His fingertips danced against his arms, sending pleasurable ripples over his body. His mind was blissfully blank, permeated by nothing but tranquility. He was weightless, without gravity or time. Thoughts floated around idly. His heart swelled with love, safety, security. It felt like childhood, like being swaddled in your mother’s embrace—being kissed goodnight and tucked into the duvet. Tea in the early morning; the warmth of a long hug.

Sherlock stayed with that feeling for several minutes. His reality was a cold, shoddy bathroom cubicle, with dim lighting, cracked porcelain, and dirty tiles; his reality was an unsterile needle and trickling blood, dilated pupils and constricted blood vessels; his reality was John and Rosie, alone in the flat.

Yet he was on Cloud Nine. Everything was under control.

He began to doze off. Around a half hour later, the euphoria began to wear off. Reality nipped at the edges of his mind. He seemed to come plummeting down from some great height, as if his air balloon had deflated, or someone had infused his gut with lead.

He wanted to cry.

His body ached. Instead of singing, his veins now shrieked. They seared with desire, with wanting. In the face of the cooldown, his reality, which had during the high felt faraway and under control, now suddenly felt hopeless. _John will never forgive you, or let you hold Rosie—he would never trust his daughter with a junkie. He’ll always blame you for Mary’s death. Things will never be the same._

_I want to die, I want to die._

“I want to die,” he said aloud, frantically scrambling for the open baggie on the sink basin. He took the spoon and poured another batch of powder in it, and started the process anew.

When he reinjected, supernovas collapsed and constellations exploded. Everything was right with the world.

_Everything is under control._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, Loretta’s doesn’t exist. Also, I tried to make the price of the drugs as accurate as possible, and tried using correct terminology to the best of my knowledge.


	3. Dysphoria

After the second hit of cocaine, Sherlock blearily stumbled from the bathroom. The woman from which he’d gotten the syringes looked at him knowingly, as if she could pinpoint the exact euphoric moment of the high he was riding right now.

“Thanks for...the syringes.” He gestured vaguely, in an all encompassing way, to which the woman nodded with a very subtle smirk. “ _Fuck_ , this feels good.”

“Haven’t seen you in a bit,” she said after a pause, gaze sober at the moment but never leaving Sherlock’s face. “Wondered if maybe you’d given it up.”

Something treacherous was about to leave his lips—something like, _yes, I had given it up, this is just temporary. Everything is under control. I’m the exception which proves the rule, the superior junkie. This is just enough to quell my wanting. I’ve managed to get sober time and again._

“I thought I had,” he said truthfully, splaying his hand against the wall in an attempt to balance himself. He looked down at the light trickle of blood seeping from the newly formed track mark and sucked in a harsh breath at another wave of ecstasy. He surveyed his mottled arm with a certain semblance of detachment, as if on the outside looking in. “I suppose one never really can give it up.”

She hummed in response.

His shirt sleeve rolled forward, absorbing the trickle of blood and concealing the new pair of flushed and raised track marks. He buttoned the cuff, then shuffled into his overcoat. The woman watched him.

“I have to leave,” he said languidly, tightening the coat around himself. He was afraid, if left to come down from the cocaine high in the presence of smack, that his self control would ebb away. He _promised_ himself—for John and Rosie’s sake—that he wouldn’t resort to smack. Coke was bad enough, but to return to the warm, enticing embrace of heroin after so many years...Sherlock winced.

“So soon?” said the woman.

“I really must be going,” said Sherlock, starting towards the stairs, waving to Klaas as he went. The coke still sent a pleasant murmur through his veins, tangled low and warm in his belly. No need to spoil the coke high thinking about the unattainable pleasure of smack.

* * *

The cocaine high was beginning to wear off—the second had lasted even less time than the first. Fuck, the come-down was one thing he never missed, except it almost always led to the exhilaration and exaltation only smack could provide.

 _You promised,_ said a voice startlingly like Mycroft’s.

“Fuck off,” he growled, blood curdling and searing inside him. His heartbeat grew into a quick paced ache, bashing against his sternum. If he didn’t find some smack soon, he would crumble. “Fuck off, fuck off, fuck _off_.”

The cabbie’s look of concern peered at him from the front view mirror. “Everything alright?” he said hesitantly.

Just a bit, thought Sherlock, just enough to get through this. John would understand, surely. _This is excruciating._

“Of course everything’s alright,” he growled, curling his legs into his abdomen.

He couldn’t return to Baker Street like this anyway. If he woke John, or God forbid Rosie, there would be no way to justify his erratic behavior. If he just got enough smack to soothe the stimulant effects of the coke, he could ride this out just fine. The cool down would be a bitch, as per usual, but anything was preferable to this fucking _agony._

“Change of plans,” he said, “drop me off at the corner.”

“Sir, are you sure?” The cabbie stopped at the light and glanced furtively back, voice slightly trembling. “You don’t look so—“

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said hastily, already bounding out of the car. He tossed a wad of pound notes in the cabbie’s general direction with a fleeting goodbye.

* * *

Maybe he’d gone a bit overboard. He had run back to the den behind Loretta’s, desperately clawed money out of his envelope, and doled it into Klaas’s awaiting hands. After all, he had offered smack _and_ speed for a delinquently generous price.

Sherlock took his other syringe, swaddled in loo paper and nestled in his pocket, and placed it on the bathroom vanity. He took the spoon from earlier and went through the whole refining process, ache growing in his chest as time dragged on. He was made only of wanting, in this moment.

“Come on,” Sherlock muttered, setting a cigarette filter in the spoon, then sucking the solution into the syringe. He held it needle-up, flicking the barrel to dispel any air from the instrument.

With his overcoat already shed from his shoulders and shirt cuff already rolled above his forearm, he extended his arm flat on the vanity, positioning the syringe directly above the inner elbow. He watched blood seep into the syringe barrel and, without further deliberation, pushed down the plunger.

“Fuck,” he sighed, body sagging with relief when the solution entered his bloodstream. Suddenly, his heartbeat was languid and measured, pulsing pleasurably. The restlessness and paranoia of the cocaine entangled with the fresh dose of heroin, melting away into something placid. Greedily, though somewhat clumsily, he drew back the plunger and watched blood curl inside the barrel again before reinjecting. The second rush of residual smack flowed through him and he winced with the onslaught.

The high was indescribable. It was like sinking into a hot bath after a day of strenuous work, feeling muscles loosen and relax. It was like walking into Baker Street and being greeted by Rosie and John with open, extended arms awaiting an embrace. It was like pushing John up against a wall, edging his knee between his groin, pressing kisses flush against his neck, trailing them down—

 _God_ , he wanted to kiss John. The rush of smack, euphoria mixed with elation, made the silly fantasy seem somehow possible.

He unsteadily took the syringe and flushed the residual solution into the sink basin, then wrapped it in a bit of loo paper and shoved it into his pants pocket.

He looked at himself in the mirror for a long moment. His hair was sweat slicked and frizzy, matted to his forehead. His pupils were constricted pin-hole thin, and the sclera was red and riddled with prominent blood vessels. Flush crept over his skin, which was riddled with goosebumps and raised hair. His clothes hung limply over his form, bony shoulders protruding. Hands quivering and unsteady, he smoothed down the front of his shirt. Extending his arm, brandishing it at the mirror, he saw fresh marks in the crook of his elbow, little pinpricks along the veins.

God, he looked like a proper junkie, he noted with a crazed smile.

Pulling his coat over his shoulders, he flicked up the collar. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing the fringe away from his brow, behind his ears. He loosened the scarf around his neck, feeling constricted by the fabric, as if it had suddenly doubled in size like a compressed towel in contact with water.

Pleasurable ripples of feeling still coursed through his body. He felt himself leave his own body, watching from the outside. Thoughts rolled through his mind like tumbleweeds, passing briefly across his eyelids. It felt like someone was changing channels on a telly, like he was inhabited by one character after the next—never himself, just some strange approximation. It was strangely intimate yet detached. It was comforting, in a way, to be in his own body but away from himself.

Reality would crack down on him soon; he needed to return to Baker Street eventually, before John got suspicious. Yet he couldn’t simply ride off the rest of his high in the flat—he wasn’t cruel enough to potentially subject Rosie to his drug addled behavior. He would need to take great care in stashing the drugs.

This won’t happen again, Sherlock thought. _I’m the exception which proves the rule. Everything is under control,_ thought Sherlock with a flushed face and lazy smile.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to the tattered and tarnished wallpaper of the drug den. It was the only indication that he must have, in his heroin-induced drowsiness, fallen asleep.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes, rubbing a hand over his eyelids when sunlight assaulted him. His head pounded, like someone was banging drums inside his skull. His brain seemed to be swimming. His mouth was cotton-dry, scratchy and raw. A cough rattled out of his throat.

“Shit,” he whispered, staggering from the ground. The floor seemed to sway beneath his feet. He peeked through the curtains, seeing a steady line of cars on the street and figuring it was probably early evening.

The smack had left him considerably drowsy. He felt around in his coat pocket for the cocaine and speed which, thankfully, were still safely hidden. Dozens of other junkies littered the den, and Sherlock scoffed at the realization that he somehow still found himself to be a _better_ junkie. More cautious, more knowledgeable, less stupid. He had more self-control than any of the others, thought Sherlock. The smack this morning had merely been a momentary lapse in his usual rigid self-restriction. _Yes, of course_. He would flush the cocaine and the rest of the heroin down the loo when he got home. Everything was under control. After all, he wasn’t some amateur.

He opened the window, stifled momentarily by the brightness of the sun. It had no alternative but to shine, Sherlock thought. It wasn’t to blame.

He lit a cigarette, inhaling and expelling curling tendrils of smoke from the window. He watched as the smoke dispelled into the sky, as he flicked ash onto the rotting floorboards beneath his feet. Reveling in the pleasant burning of the smoke, he took another drag and blew out a long, satisfying puff. An onlooker on the kerb below caught his attention, narrowed beady eyes at him with disapproval akin to that of a parent towards a child who had snuck out, then continued on his way with an indignant shuffle. Sherlock watched him amble away with a startling amount of steel, finding that some sort of defensiveness had swathed over him, as if he felt the need to take arms against anyone who disapproved of his lifestyle.

It had been a time since the derisive looks of the sober had been directed at him. Then again, he supposed he would always face this problem, of being isolated from the sober.

After all, he had just relapsed.

 _Fuck,_ he had relapsed. Again.

He was a difficult person.

* * *

He stumbled blearily out of the den, hailed a cab, paid the cabbie a considerable amount, if only to prevent him from tattling, and returned to Baker Street as quickly as he could.

Christ, he probably looked like shit. Not as high as a kite anymore, but certainly his profile was suspicious.

His skin was pallid and yellowed like old newspaper. Cooled sweat beaded on his temples. His overcoat was greatly disheveled and wrapped around his torso like a suit of armor, to avoid prying eyes. Without his coat, he would be defenseless against the hawkish look of John’s piercing gaze. Even with the coat, his paranoia addled brain still somehow conjured up scenarios of John spotting the track marks along the flexures of his arms.

John said nothing, even as Sherlock ambled into the living room. He did, however, look up from his book.

“Did you see the note?” said Sherlock tersely. He cleared his throat, waving a hand towards the kitchen.

“Yeah, that excuse would have held up for maybe a good two hours,” said John, leveling Sherlock with a particularly omniscient expression. “It’s been nearly seven. And that’s only since I _saw_ the note.”

 _Shit_.

Suddenly he felt like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. “Well,” he started slowly, walking closer to the center of the room and collapsing into his armchair. He fiddled with the baggies in his inner coat pocket discreetly, reassuring himself of their continued presence. “You know how Graham is.” He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture as if to indicate the complete lack of need for further exposition.

“Greg,” corrected John.

“Yes, whatever.” Sherlock settled into the chair cushion, propping his slipper clad feet on the coffee table.

“You went to the Yard looking like that?” John said, gesturing at the ill-fitting trousers, flimsy slippers, loosened scarf, and unkempt hair. Really, he seemed to be gesturing at _all_ of Sherlock. “Are you feeling ill? You look a bit peaky.”

Sherlock hummed absently, attempting to cover his unease with indifference. He couldn’t help a slight fidgeting to his leg, a repetitive tap to his fingers.

“Did you eat anything before you left?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Drink anything?”

Another shake.

“Christ, I’ll make you some tea.” John moved to get up from his chair, but Sherlock took him by the arm before he could enter the kitchen. He turned back to Sherlock, face expectant. When silence lingered for a beat too long, he said, “Is everything alright? Has something happened?”

“No,” Sherlock said, searching for something in John’s eyes, but not knowing exactly what he was searching for—perhaps for what had changed John’s mind, what had urged him to make Sherlock tea for the first time since he’d moved back in. He relinquished John’s arm after a moment. “No, everything’s under control.” That was his mantra—if he thought it often enough, perhaps it would become the truth.

“Fine, okay,” John stammered. “Good.”

God, when had things become so tense between them?

“I’ll make you some tea,” John reiterated, shuffling into the kitchen.

Sherlock hummed in response and curled more tightly into the fetal position in his chair. His stomach cleaved to his ribs, empty except for a pack of biscuits which he had eaten the night before. The thought of introducing anything solid into his stomach induced a looming sense of nausea. He wrapped his arms around himself, cushioning his head on his wrists.

A thought occurred to him and it seemed suddenly imperative he voice it aloud. “Where’s Rosie?”

“Molly’s,” John responded simply. “I asked her to babysit today. Because we were supposed to go to lunch, remember?”

 _Fuck_. How had he forgotten? He and John had agreed to go to Angelo’s and catch up over lunch. Instead, it was now five in the afternoon, or somewhere thereabouts, and he had been in a drug den with cocaine and heroin in his system. Suddenly, Sherlock’s life seemed to be contaminated by failure. After all, all he seemed to be good for was making everything worse. Perhaps this lunch could have been a new chapter in his and John’s relationship, something to let some of the tension bleed out.

“John,” he said, voice coming out strangled. “I’m...I’m sorry, it slipped my mind—“

“It’s alright.” He said it with the air of a widower responding to the obligatory consolation of a funeral goer—like “alright” was an unspoken but all-known code for the opposite. “I know you get caught up in your own head sometimes.”

A certain defensiveness and determination flooded through him. “No, John, I messed up,” he said honestly, to which John’s eyes bulged from his head. “You and Rosie are the most important things to me, and I buggered it up. I wouldn’t want you to think I purposefully bailed.” The coke and smack still wedged in his pocket seemed to scream his name.

 _I’ll make you feel better_ , they both said.

“Sherlock, it’s alright,” said John, more sincerely this time. He was still wide eyed with equal parts surprise and bemusement, but his gaze seemed to be touched by and softened with fondness. “I know.”

Although Sherlock still felt infinitesimally small, like a loser, like one of those doped up druggies in the den which had giggled coyly and operated without a care in the world, he nodded. He said nothing more.

John returned some moments later with a mug of tea in hand. “Two sugars,” he said.

Perhaps pathetically, the knowledge that John remembered Sherlock took his tea with two sugars was immensely relieving. Something gnarly in his stomach loosened as he took a sip of the beverage. “It’s good,” he commented offhandedly. “Thank you.”

When had they been reduced to inane small talk? It seemed like nowadays all they did was dance around one another, talking about nothing of importance and avoiding everything worth actually talking about. There was something despairing and poignant about the situation which Sherlock feared might never be said aloud: that he wished for nothing more than to shake himself from this inescapable bout of babble and talk to John about something _important_. To say _To Hell with this_ and spout off whatever he wished to say. Yet, there was some dynamic of their relationship which had changed, which had rendered talking about meaningful things somehow taboo. They could now only talk about the mundane, the trivial, and the frivolous.

Questions were caged cruelly on the edge of his tongue. They were poised, ready to snarl from his throat. They seared like his veins when inundated with drugs, roiled like turbulent waves—like bubbles ducked under a layer of ice, trapped but eager, hidden but present.

_When did Baker Street stop being home? Why do you blame me for Mary’s death? I thought you’d forgiven me. Do you trust me with Rosie? What did I do wrong?_

“You’re welcome,” said John, like an automated voice message.

 _I want to die, I want to die, I want to die_.

Rather than utter any of this, Sherlock kept his thoughts moving along, smiled hollowly, and finished off the rest of his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be more John and Sherlock interactions in future chapters. Right now, they just gotta be apart.


	4. Dissonance

Sherlock hadn’t touched any of the drugs since the incident with John last night. Guilt gnawed at his stomach, tangled with self-loathing and disappointment. He knew how John felt about the throes of addiction. He remembered John finding him high as a kite in a drug den, then on the tarmac, then during the Culverton Smith case; remembered John ranting about his hatred for Harry. How she wouldn’t just let him help her, how she couldn’t be helped if she didn’t want to be—how he didn’t understand how Harry could _do_ that to him.

He’d stashed the drugs and syringes in the loose floorboard beneath the fireplace. He glanced at it every so often, now, as Rosie toddled about the flat. Christ, thought Sherlock, _how stupid do you have to be to put drugs at a toddler’s level_?

That feeling of failure, which in the past weeks had become increasingly familiar, swathed over him again. It seeped into his chest, coiled there, made worse by the knowledge that he and John were already treading on thin ice as it was. He was terrified of doing anything that might jeopardize their tentative cohabitation—or his rights to see Rosie. His current position resembled that of a husband in the midst of divorce, trying to keep partial custody of his child, as well as gain as much trust from his spouse as he could manage after committing some inconceivable betrayal.

John entered the living room with two mugs of tea and a bottle tucked under his arm. He seemed to notice something remiss about Sherlock’s countenance. However hard he tried to hide his unease, his guilt, his shame, John seemed to peer through it. “Something wrong?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, tongue feeling swollen and puffy. The words felt like ash and soot.

John hummed and deposited both mugs on the coffee table, conversation seemingly ended.

“C’mon, you,” he said to Rosie, dipping to elegantly yet somewhat roughly pull her into his lap. She giggled melodiously, making grabbing gestures and movements childishly reminiscent of applause.

Sherlock watched it with a semblance of detachment, as if observing the nuances of a painting. He felt far away, disconnected from the sight. Here, right in front of him, were the two people he cherished most in this world. They were bubbly and affectionate, familiar and comfortable. Here he was, the one person he loathed most in this world, sitting across from them, trying desperately to partake but seemingly falling short—as he somehow managed to in every capacity. An incongruous and discordant presence.

He watched as John bottle fed Rosie. It stirred self-loathing in his chest, but also kindled a refreshed wave of affection. John was the perfect image of paternal caution and generosity; he cradled Rosie closely, smoothed reverently over her blonde hair with one hand and tipped the bottle with the other. Rosie seemed to be shrouded in a halo of light. She made attempts at grabbing the bottle, but eventually settled for curling her fist in the front of John’s jumper. Sherlock couldn’t help being simultaneously endeared and humbled.

John, who had been smiling warmly at Rosie, directed his gaze at Sherlock. His expression sobered. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Another bout of guilt twisted in his stomach. His influence, once again, had managed to disturb John’s happiness. He was encroaching on something special and private by being here, by watching the father and daughter’s comfortable companionship. Once again, he was out of place and at the same time reminded that he was, after all, a difficult person.

_I want to die._

“Yes, fine,” he said stiffly, standing from his chair. He walked towards the window, abandoning the cup of tea John had prepared for him—yet another thing to feel bad about.

 _Ungrateful_.

“If you say so,” said John slowly, returning his attention to his daughter’s face.

Sherlock grew restless. He paced around the carpet, worried at the fabric of his pajamas, peaked through the curtains, scrubbed a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. He looked over pieces of papers strewn on the desk, fiddled clumsily with a pen, glanced at himself in the mirror; did anything and everything he could to ignore the knowledge of the drugs nestled beneath the floor, dangerously within Rosie’s reach and John’s scrutiny.

“Okay,” said John, impatience creeping into his voice. “What’s the matter? You’re on edge—you’ve practically paced a hole into the carpet.”

_We don’t talk like we used to. You don’t let me hold Rosie. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. Whenever I’m with you it feels as if my heart is squeezing itself out of my chest. You look at me like I’m a disappointment, like I used to be more and you’ve lost something by staying so long. I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I know I’m a difficult person. I want to die when you look at me._

“Nothing,” Sherlock snapped. “ _Nothing’s_ wrong.”

“Right, okay.” John laughed stiffly. “I guess not much has changed.”

Sherlock bit back the urge to say: _Everything has changed. How could you be so blind? We never used to be like this. And that’s why I’m acting the way I am—I don’t know how to get back what I lost. I don’t even know what I lost._

“What hasn’t?” he said instead, more anger infused in his voice than he intended.

“You. Acting like you don’t need anybody.”

_I need you._

“I _don’t_ need anybody,” he said in a voice not his own. It was apparent to both John and Sherlock that this was a complete lie.

“Fine, right,” said John. He had finished feeding Rosie, bottle now held under his arm as he got up. “Whatever. I’ve gotta be off to work now. I’m taking Rosie down to Mrs. Hudson.”

 _Fuck_ , thought Sherlock, he’d fucked up again.

“I can watch her,” he said in his own voice at last. The words came out tremulous and soft, tinged with desperation as if in a silent plea, but no less genuine. “It isn’t good, as far as I’m aware, to shuffle a child from house-to-house and person-to-person. She’s familiar with me.”

“She’s going right downstairs,” said John, already grabbing her diaper bag from the sofa and his coat from the rack by the door. His voice held an air of offense at Sherlock’s comment, as if he had taken it as an implication that he was a bad father—which, Sherlock thought, was the furthest thing from the truth. “Mrs. Hudson watches her all the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna be late.”

Sherlock watched John go with a creeping sense of dread.

 _John didn’t trust him._ Not with the truth of his own feelings, and certainly not with Rosie’s safety. The realization sent a crippling wave of sorrow through him.

There had once been a time where John had said he would trust Sherlock with his life. That, despite Sherlock’s unpredictability and fanaticism, he still knew wholeheartedly that he was protected and secure. Trust had been the integral backbone to their relationship, even when they had first met; it was a testament to their faith and understanding of one another.

Then again, John’s mistrust wasn’t so unjustified. After all, he _had_ stashed drugs in the flat. Sherlock was more than aware that he would never do anything to intentionally hurt Rosie, but he wasn’t so self-aggrandizing as to proclaim himself a good first choice of babysitter. He completely understood John’s scepticism, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t deeply unsettled by it.

He unearthed the baggies and syringes from beneath the wooden floor, carrying them like hot coals towards his coat on the rack, and shoved them into the inner pocket. Even though they were still sloppily hidden and well within John’s range of vision, it was a much safer place than ground level, where Rosie may have eventually discovered them.

Christ, he thought, cradling his head in his hands. Everything was fucked.

* * *

Despite John may have been opposed to it, Sherlock went downstairs to visit Rosie.

“Oh, Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson as she opened the door. Her mouth was opened in a delicate shape, indicating her pleasant surprise. “Come in, dear. I’ve just put Rosie down for her nap.”

Sherlock stepped past her and walked into the living room, where Rosie was swaddled and fast asleep in her bassinet. John and Mary—Sherlock winced—had bought it and given it to Mrs. Hudson for the occasions when she babysat, which was more often than not. After all, John and Mary had both worked full-time, and Mrs. Hudson was in short-supply of anything interesting to preoccupy herself with.

She didn’t mind babysitting at all—she actually seemed to thrive off it. Whenever Sherlock saw her caring for Rosie, she seemed to have this otherworldly aura. She practically glowed, as one would in motherhood. Perhaps that was it, thought Sherlock; Mrs. Hudson had never had children of her own. The mantle of guardianship which John had passed onto her was probably equal parts exhausting as it was fulfilling.

“She’s a sweet girl,” cooed Mrs. Hudson, standing beside the bassinet. Her pruned and fragile hand stroked over Rosie’s forehead. “Doesn’t fuss or anything. Always happy and smiling.”

Sherlock felt suddenly drained yet satisfied at once. “I guess she really is John Watson’s child,” he said wryly, extending his hand tentatively over Rosie’s prone form. He hesitated, fingers hovering in the air. Mrs. Hudson’s open affection emboldened him after a moment, and he began gently swiping his thumb over her temples.

Rosie sighed, chest rising and falling with her shallow breathing. She seemed completely at ease, either unaware or uncaring of the pair’s proximity to her. Children were so incredibly trusting—the most vulnerable, but also the least guarded.

“Would you like some tea, dear?” said Mrs. Hudson, placing a steadying hand on his forearm. Her hand inched just a bit too closely to the crook of his elbow, but he resisted the urge to shake himself from her grip.

“That would be lovely,” he murmured, begrudgingly turning away from the bassinet.

She returned some moments later with a steaming mug. “I thought you’d have had a case today.”

“Why?” he said, though the answer was obvious.

“I just assumed John would have left Rosie with you if you hadn’t.”

_So had I._

He took a pointed sip of his tea. It was bitter and leeched the saliva from his mouth. “I’m not the best at handling children.” A general falsehood diluted with a smidge of truth: it wasn’t that he couldn’t handle kids, but rather that there was always someone more competent at it.

“Oh, but you just adore Rosie, I can tell.” Her easy exaltation softened some of Sherlock’s self-doubt.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean he trusts me,” blurted Sherlock. Dazed and restless, self-effacing and crazed, his filter was weakened.

Mrs. Hudson seemed scandalized. “Now don’t say that!” she said, swatting at his shoulder. “John’s only a bit overprotective is all—rightfully so. After what happened with Mary being dishonest, and all that other nonsense, I can’t say I blame him.”

_John was dishonest too. He doesn’t let me hold Rosie, nor watch her, nor feed her. He thinks I’m a bad influence, takes her from me at ever chance where it’s justifiable. It smacks too closely of mistrust._

“I suppose,” said Sherlock. There was a disconnect between how he viewed John and how everyone else seemed to. “I just...I don’t know what to do. Nothing is the same anymore.”

“What do you mean by nothing?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” he reiterated, flailing his hands inadequately. The strength with which he said the word seemed to peter out as he said, quieter, “Nothing is the same. It hasn’t been for quite some time. I don’t know why—I _hate_ not knowing why.” There was no way he could seem to voice this cloying feeling adequately, no matter how dearly he tried.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson was the only one who could get away with saying his name in such a manner without it feeling like pity. “He has a child now, love. He’s grieving Mary still. I would just give him time to come around.”

_How can no one see that I’m grieving too?_

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, setting his mug on the side table. “Maybe I’ve been expecting too much.”

He smiled weakly, turned to look at Rosie’s peacefully sleeping form. The desire for drugs shrouded him, winding around him like vines. It loomed over his head like a shawl, tightening its hold. The sudden yearning ripped through him and displaced whatever guilt had prevented its surfacing earlier. It seemed suddenly imperative, gazing at Rosie’s gently fluttering eyelids and Mrs. Hudson’s doleful gaze, that he return to the safety and sweet release only heroin could provide.

He thanked Mrs. Hudson for the tea, rose from his chair, kissed Rosie on her forehead, and made his way back to his flat.

As he entered the doorway, he emptied his coat pocket, then locked himself in the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least arguing is preferable to no talking at all...right?


	5. Absolution

That night, Sherlock, unable to flee to his room—which, he reminded himself, was now John’s—still tried to avoid John simply by feigning sleep. As soon as he heard footfall on the stairs, he curled into himself on the sofa, facing the cushions, and covered himself quickly with the duvet. He felt John’s heavy gaze sweep over him before it disappeared. John took Rosie up to her bed, came back down, puttered about the kitchen, then retired to his own room.

The following day, Sherlock left the flat before John had even woken up. With no destination in particular, and no company of which to speak, he wandered aimlessly for some time. He passed Speedy’s cafe, hooked around the corner at Angelo’s restaurant, made his way through Regent's Park; all the while, he glanced furtively down at his mobile, waiting for a text or call from John asking about his whereabouts. It’s what John would have done once, scared and surprised by Sherlock’s absence.

But now there was nothing.

* * *

Sherlock did receive a message some time later, whilst still meandering down the sidewalk; he was disappointed to find the messenger ID did not belong to John.

**You’ve been using again. M**

_You always were the smart one, weren’t you?-SH_

**I still am. M**

**Dare I say it has something to do with Dr. Watson? M**

_I’d rather you kept your big nose out of matters that don’t concern you.-SH_

**You always concern me. M**

**That response only confirms my suspicion. M**

_Then you should be sated. Now shove off and have a nice day.-SH_

**You need to seek rehab. M**

_If you haven’t noticed, I’ve tried and failed, many times.-SH_

**At least be sterile. M**

**Write the lists. M**

**I would prefer not to have a repeat of last time. M**

_To which ‘last time’ are you referring? I believe there were several.-SH_

**If I didn’t know any better I would say you were proud of it. M**

**Does John know you’ve relapsed? M**

_No, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.-SH_

**I’ll send you a package. It will be personally delivered when John has vacated the flat. M**

_A package containing what, exactly?-SH_

**More appropriate and sanitary instruments. M**

_NA would call this enabling.-SH_

**Addicts will be addicts. I cannot hope to stop you. Lord knows I’ve tried. M**

**I can only make the process less dangerous. M**

Sherlock pocketed his phone and tried to think about nothing at all.

* * *

At some indefinable point in his travels, Sherlock had decided it would be beneficial to have company. Almost without conscious thought, he had ended up at St. Bartholomew's hospital, seeking out Molly.

He hadn’t seen her since the phone call; since she said she loved him, and since he said it back. Sherlock did love her— _of course I do_ —but not in the same capacity she loved him; not in the way she deserved. It was just another thing for which to hate himself, another person he had disappointed. His failures were scratched like tally marks into his soul. He remembered in his youth when he had relished in always being right, but realized now, staring into Molly’s somber, tentative eyes, that he hadn’t been right for a long time now. Perhaps he had always been wrong, always been a failure, a disappointment.

“Molly,” he croaked.

Even the way he said her name was undeserving of her greatness. He couldn’t seem to infuse his words with everything he meant to; couldn’t phrase the sorrow, express the regret, show the sincerity. He spoke as if nothing in their relationship was remiss, as if there wasn’t an elephant in the room.

“Why are you here?” she said, voice edged with steel—or as much as she could muster when her expression betrayed her hope and curiosity.

Sherlock didn’t know. It hadn’t occurred to him.

“I don’t know.” Something in her expression shifted, her initial steel softening with concern.

“What’s wrong?” she said. He supposed it was obvious he was afflicted by something, what with his admission to not knowing the reason for his presence. Sherlock always made it a point to have a motivation for everything, to have some force which propelled him. Not now—he was too tired, acting on whims and subconscious.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted.

Her eyebrows furrowed, nose scrunching endearingly. “Have you been drinking?” she half-whispered, grasping his bicep with a steadying hand.

“No,” he mumbled, shaking his head. He still couldn’t exactly pinpoint why it had seemed imperative he come here. “I...I wanted to see you.” He surprised himself with his own honesty. “And to apologize.”

The last of her inhibitions and guard seemed to melt away, expression now touched with fondness and forgiveness. “For what?”

“For being a huge arsehole,” he said, smiling tightly, a rigid laugh escaping him. Her expression seemed to sadden, which made his smile, already tense and hesitant, fall away. “For not treating you the way you deserve; what I asked of you on the phone…I knew how painful that was for you.” A sigh wrenched itself from his throat. “I _do_ love you, that much I meant, but...not in the way you love me.”

Molly’s mouth was in a flat, terse line. “You can’t help how you feel,” she finally said. The words seemed to scrape her mouth on their way out. “I never expected you to return anything. At least, after John.” She paused; smiled wryly. “That confirmed that there wasn’t a chance.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. It seemed an inadequate apology, but he thought of nothing more fitting.

“Why are you telling me this now?” she said.

He thought about it for a moment.

“Because I know how you feel.”

She startled. “How is that?”

He knew what it was like to love someone who could never love you back; to awaken in the early hours of the morning, stiff and aching with desire for the press of someone’s lips; to want to fill yourself up with someone else, if only to forget for a moment; for your love to be so strong, so pure, that it fills some void in you, makes you better but also embitters you to the unattainable source of your affections. He knew now how his indifference must have pained Molly, how he must have hurt her deeply over the years. It didn’t matter that it was unintentional—heartache was heartache regardless of its circumstance.

Sherlock couldn’t seem to voice the intricacy and depth of his feelings aloud. All that came was: “Devastated.”

Molly’s face crumpled. A sob suddenly tore itself from her throat. She sniffled for a moment, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose as she inhaled, exhaled, slowly and steadily. “Thank you,” she said with the tone of a churchgoer after confession, as if she were the one seeking absolution from some great evil: as it were, she was the _recipient_ of such a confession. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“You deserve someone better than me anyway,” he said gently, flexing his fingers in remembrance of the needles so often pressed into his veins. Overwhelmed by self-loathing, he could only joke, “But please, don’t date another Jim from IT.”

She laughed in that quick, breathless way one does when someone has said something rather unexpected. “I would never,” she smiled.

Some of the tension bled from Sherlock's shoulders. His feeling of inadequacy was temporarily diluted by his ability to make Molly laugh—by his victory in attaining her forgiveness.

Although they were not together romantically, and never would be, Sherlock felt a touch of fondness for Molly which he felt for no one else—not even John. It was a special sort of softness which had developed more so over the past few years he had been acquainted with John, who’s gentle patience and humanity had coaxed from him a greater appreciation for people. He had never voiced this tenderness to Molly for fear that she would feel led on, or develop some hope at a relationship. Perhaps in another lifetime they could have been something. Frankly, Sherlock had invested himself completely in John Watson from the very start. There was no way to deter him then, and especially not now.

Hoping to convey some inkling of his affection, he leaned down to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. Molly’s hands fluttered in her lap, as if she wished to extend them. Sherlock grabbed them, squeezed them within his own, kept them from moving anxiously.

She gave an appreciative hum, even as he pulled away. “Was I right?”

“About what?” said Sherlock.

“About John.” She was looking at him with a strangely imploring expression. “I never did have a chance, did I?”

There may have been a time where he would have lied, but he couldn’t do it to Molly; not right now. Her expression was honest and open, hopeful for an answer equally as genuine.

Sherlock smiled tightly at her, feeling a familiar pressure welling behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. It was as much of a confirmation as any. “Truly.”

_I wish I could go back to the way things were before John—before he made me realize my life could be more. I had been perfectly content before him, but now the idea of returning to that existence is painful—but the prospect of existing with the way things are now is equally so._

_I want to die._

Her jaw tensed in distress, but she seemed somehow relieved. “I hope he sees you one day,” she said earnestly, staring Sherlock directly in his eyes. “I...I know how you feel, and I never want you to feel that way. I hope John gets his head out of his arse soon.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh a bit brokenly as Molly brandished a watery smile.

* * *

Sherlock left Bart’s feeling surprisingly weightless. His rocky, tenuous friendship with Molly had been weighing on him more than he had initially thought. He felt like a buoy safely floating on the ocean’s surface, when before he had felt like an anchor cast to the depths of the sea.

He arrived at the corner of Baker Street to see the figure of a woman just coming to a stop at his doorstep, hand poised as if about to knock. Sherlock recognized her immediately as Anthea—or whatever she called herself these days—who was carrying a rather substantial parcel under her arm. She saw him approaching and flashed a look of detached acknowledgement.

“Hello,” she said, voice conversational but smile professional. “I’ve a package for you.”

Sherlock stopped before her and took it with an air of curious skepticism. Yes, he thought, if he was correct in his assumption of the package’s contents—and he was almost _always_ correct—it would only make sense to have them personally delivered.

It was just like Mycroft, the omnipresent bastard he was, to know Sherlock’s exact whereabouts to such a fine degree as to guarantee perfect synchronization of both his and Anthea’s arrival. “Perfect timing,” grumbled Sherlock offhandedly, to which Anthea cracked a knowing smile. “He’s always been overbearing, but I thought he might take a holiday by this point in his life.”

Anthea smirked wider, if possible. “Mycroft doesn’t take breaks.” She gave Sherlock a once-over, starting at an errant curl at the top of his head and moving towards his toes. “Mycroft...was made aware of the altercation with John. He saw it fit I deliver this as soon as possible, in case you did something...rash.”

A lump formed in Sherlock’s throat. It was an uncomfortable and unwelcome nuisance, like a gnat flying around your head.

Anthea’s expression sobered. “He worries for you. Constantly.” At that, Sherlock had nothing to say. The silence stretched for several moments before she nodded, then began to walk away. Sherlock watched her duck into Mycroft’s black car; watched it pull away from the kerb with a rising feeling of dread, realization, and overwhelming nausea.

He jostled the package in his arms, finding it was as substantial in weight as it was in appearance. It was a plain, inconspicuous parcel, which made Sherlock increasingly convinced that the contents of said package were far from legal.

Once back upstairs in the safety of the bathroom, Sherlock tore the parcel open to find the inside neatly organized. A set of Stericups were stacked alongside a sealed baggie of clean syringes. Alcohol swabs, filters, a proper tourniquet, a new lighter, citric acid packets, and bottled water for injection lay tightly packed together. Resting delicately on top was the elegant scrawl of Mycroft’s handwriting on a note card.

**Only the best or go without. At least if you’re going to do it, do so safely. I’ve seen you ravaged by addiction too often now to let such recklessness slide any longer. M**


	6. Familiarity

“Made yourself at home, did you?” said Sherlock after stashing the note in his pocket and exiting the bathroom.

Mycroft pointedly stirred sugar into his tea, then took a long, self-satisfied sip. “You took a tad longer than expected,” he said, pacing into the living room. There was something strange about his facial expression; his features were forced into false rigidity, masking an underlying discomfiture and vexation. “Figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said, extending the mug in indication.

Sherlock hummed, following him into the family room and falling into his armchair. “You always have been one for dramatics. Anthea—if that’s even her name— _ personally _ delivered a package, only for you to already be in my flat. Have you not heard of knocking? ‘Might I come in?’” he singsonged, parodying what an ordinary person would do. “It’s as if you’ve expunged manners from your arsenal, brother mine. It’s rather unbecoming.”

“There’s no need to be so defensive,” said Mycroft—seating himself in John’s chair, Sherlock noted with a wistful pang. “After all, you’re well known for your theatrics. We both know knocking would not guarantee my entrance; subterfuge is the only way I can set foot in the flat.”

Sherlock sank further into his chair, fiddling with the threadbare fabric. “For good reason,” he grumbled. “Every time you visit I seem to be missing sleeves of biscuits. You’re a menace.”

Sherlock would never admit that Mycroft’s presence was actually welcome at this particular moment. This childish feud they had both held onto since adolescence was familiar in a reassuring and distracting way. It was something others perhaps found odd, an act that seemed somewhat unbrotherly and immature, but something that worked perfectly within the Holmes family dynamic. It was a way to portray humor and affection without actually having to unearth and explain monumental emotions.

Mycroft smiled in that tight, pinched way he had honed extensively in his office years. “I think it’s a small price to pay when I happen to be affording your lifestyle.” He took another painfully slow, smug sip of tea before setting the mug and dish on the table. “Just imagine if you’d have to get an actual  _ job _ —how ghastly. Why, I’d say Dr. Watson is contributing to the rent more than you are. What do you think he’d say if he knew of your recent...activities?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. Something in Mycroft’s expression softened, like ice thawing.

After another moment, suddenly, his gaze sharpened again, like hardening cement, or carbon compressed into diamonds. “I told John to take care of you. What happened?” His tone was accusatory, gaze sweeping up and over Sherlock’s form. Realization narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t been on speaking terms despite the fact you reside in the same flat. Is this cause for concern?” His next words were coated in lethal, underlying poison: “Do I need to have a chat with John?”

“No,” said Sherlock, swiftly, all notions of banter vanishing. “This isn’t his fault.”

“You turn up at Loretta’s and purchase £1500 worth of illegal primarily Class A drugs from a notorious drug dealer; you haven’t taken a case with Scotland Yard for several weeks; you scarcely leave the flat if my surveillance is to be trusted—which it always is; Mrs. Hudson has been bickering with me endlessly about ‘Sherlock this’ and ‘Sherlock that’:  _ none  _ of this has to do with a particular John Watson?” After he finished rattling off his observations like a list, Mycroft’s eyes narrowed even further into accusing slits. “Careful now, I’m in a rather foul mood.”

“You cannot possibly blame my relapse on John.” Sherlock spat, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is because you feel like an inadequate brother, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, lips twisting into a snarl. “No, no, never mind; this isn't because you failed me—it’s because  _ you _ lost. You need a scapegoat—someone to blame my poor behavior on so you don’t feel like  _ you’re _ a failure. You left your junkie,  _ sore excuse _ of a brother to his own devices, and entrusted him to the care of someone else—and  _ here he is _ , relapsing once again. This is all a game to you. You’re pinning it all on John because it’s easier to think that you aren’t culpable, that you did  _ everything right _ —just like always, like Mummy's perfect child; always in control. Well tough luck: you  _ failed _ . Giving your so-called ‘addict’ brother all the tools he needs to get his next fix seems a rather perverted version of caring—“

The sharp sound of Mycroft’s umbrella stabbing into the floor broke Sherlock from his addled stream of consciousness. He flinched away, coiling himself tightly in his chair.

Mycroft smiled dangerously, in a way that signified his rising ire rather than good nature. “I know what you’re doing—and I loathe it,” said Mycroft quietly, leaning forward in his chair. “Caring is not an advantage; I know that better than anyone. Do not patronize or belittle me for worrying about you—and do not mistake my distress for what it is not.” His smile curled impossibly wider as he tapped his temple. “Use your head, brother mine.”

Sherlock was about to growl out an equally scathing response before Mycroft cut him off with a curt gesture.

“Do you realize the illegality of my protection—the severity of your transgressions, hmm?” Mycroft drained the rest of his tea, setting down the mug with more force than necessary. “I signed off on a package containing instruments I knew would be used for illegal activities—for  _ your  _ sake. Possession of Class A drugs could land you in prison for up to seven years. I do not wish to see you in such an unforgiving place again.” His expression loosened then, wearing thin around the edges. “As much as you pretend to be unaffected, you are too fragile for such an existence.”

“Why not just send me back to rehab? Why give me the means to continue using?” sneered Sherlock. The acid in his voice was meant to hide how deeply his brother’s words affected him, how out of his depths he suddenly felt in the face of Mycroft’s startling emotional sincerity.

“How many times have I done so to no avail? You were always miserable. And your experiences were,” he grimaced, paused, “less than pleasant. Besides, I don’t think you want anyone to know about your little... _ slip _ back into bad habits. It’s in both of our best interests that a tight lid is kept on your impulses. As for your continued use…” Mycroft sighed with all the intensity of someone who has been struggling with a great deal for a very long time. “As I communicated before: once an addict, always an addict. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.”

Sherlock scoffed, but the noise was too gentle, too uncertain. “You’ve finally been degraded to using adages. I thought you were better than that.” The words lacked their usual tenacity.

An aggravated dent formed between Mycroft’s eyebrows. “As evidenced, I cannot successfully force your recovery. You will only get clean if  _ you _ find it beneficial. Of course I would never want to see harm come to you as a result of my actions—but I  _ know _ you. You will get your fix no matter what. You are stubborn and passionate to a fault, and it’s obvious you would stop at nothing. I, therefore, concluded that the best course of action would be to supply you with sterile means to temper your addiction. Dr. Watson, perhaps, will never forgive me. That, however, is a risk I am willing to take. Even I am susceptible to the disadvantage known as caring.”

Sherlock swallowed. His throat burned like he’d thrown up bile. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, a sudden bout of crippling inarticulacy overcoming him. “You have an odd way of showing it.”

Mycroft smiled. This one was surprisingly genuine yet melancholy. It held a type of nostalgic naivety that Mycroft seldom allowed himself to show. “You always have been an oddity; I only respond in kind.”

Sherlock was quiet; not for lack of things to say, but because too much was teeming and threatening to spill. He wrapped his coat tighter around himself. “Relapsing was never my intention,” he said softly.

“It never is,” said Mycroft, firm but kind. He paused, seeming like he was waiting for Sherlock to elaborate. After another beat of silence, he offered, “Have you been writing the lists?”

It was foolish to lie, seeing as Mycroft already knew. “No,” said Sherlock, tucking errant curls behind his ear. His mind was beginning to buzz with impatience and restlessness. It had been almost a full day since he’d last done any drugs. It wasn’t a long enough reprieve to make him desperate, but definitely long enough to leave him itchy and wanting, irritable. He could feel the absence of the heroin in his bloodstream, could feel the flowering lilac of his veins throbbing and convulsing.

Mycroft frowned thinly, expression disapproving. “What have you used?”

“Cocaine and speed 22 hours ago, heroin nearly 50 hours ago, cocaine around 60 hours ago, though I injected twice,” Sherlock rushed out, rotating in his cushioned chair, hooking his legs over the edge. “Cocaine hydrochloride, white powder heroin—diacetylmorphine hydrochloride—and regular amphetamines; only the purest forms, obviously.”

Satisfied, or at least temporarily abated, Mycroft hummed in response. He took his tea cup and saucer with a clink, made his way into the kitchen, then set the china in the sink. “Good,” he said, as if anything about doing drugs could be considered as such. “Increased purity should lower the chances of contamination or irreparable vein damage. The heroin isn’t cut with fentanyl? Nothing is laced with any additional additives or derivatives?”

“No,” said Sherlock, fingers tapping against the arm of his chair. “Klaas has been my only dealer since the start. I’ve expressed my displeasure of such things.”

Mycroft sniffed in that haughty way of his. Face tipped back, sneering down his nose, he looked as if he was balancing a crown rather precariously on his head. “Do you trust him?” he said, as if Sherlock’s response would make any difference in his attitude.

“I do,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft sighed but nodded, rubbing his hand over the bridge of his nose. “Very well. But is there no way I might persuade you to confess to John about—“

“No.” Steel edged into Sherlock's voice as he wrapped his coat ever-tighter around his abdomen. The prospect of John ever finding out sent anxiety straight to his core, threatened to break him in two. “John isn’t to know. If I find out you told him, nothing can—“

“Relax, brother mine,” Mycroft simpered, “I won’t speak a word. As I said, it is in  _ both  _ of our interests to keep your addiction under tight wraps. I was simply asking if it might be wise to at least confess to John, but I will pull the wool over his eyes as well as one can, if you so wish.”

Something warm and fond swelled in Sherlock’s chest. “Thank you,” he said; the words—the fact that they were being directed at Mycroft rather than the words themselves—felt rather foreign. Gratitude was something Sherlock felt scarcely, and even less so for his brother, but it tangled now, low in his stomach. It made his mouth dry, made him stutter out, “I appreciate it,” with more warmth than he intended.

“Though I must remind you,” Mycroft began, “that John is a doctor. He may grow to suspect later on—“

“Do shut up,” said Sherlock, his momentary tenderness dissipating, loosening its hold. “I was just feeling grateful. You’re making me regret it.”

Mycroft scoffed, peering down his nose as was his wont. “You just don’t want to admit I’m right. John Watson may not be hyper observant, but he is not stupid.” He swung his umbrella pointedly, gesturing with it at Sherlock. The combination of the umbrella and Mycroft’s hawkish gaze seemed to peer through him. “He’s a doctor; if you begin withdrawals, or use too frequently, he will recognize the symptoms.”

“I’ll be careful,” promised Sherlock. What with his frazzled appearance and still lingering vulnerability, his attempts at glowering were rather non threatening.

Mycroft looked at him with some strange mixture of paranoid skepticism and exasperated fondness. His hardened mein didn’t shift, even as he made his way to the door. “Forgive my disbelief,” he said, hand positioned on the doorknob, “but I’ve rather come to doubt your skills of self-preservation. Do  _ not  _ do anything reckless.”

Before Sherlock could reply, Mycroft had already disappeared down the stairwell. In that moment, Sherlock was strangled by the realization that he had spoken more to Mycroft in this singular instance than he had with John since he’d moved back in. It was a damning and somewhat unwelcome epiphany.

He could do nothing but curl into himself in his chair, bow his head against his chest, and bite his tongue to still a surge of emotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love to explore Mycroft and Sherlock’s relationship, especially in a scenario like this. Their banter is always fun to write.


	7. Apology

Sherlock stiffened as John entered several hours later with Rosie, asleep in his arms. “John,” he said carefully, adjusting his position on the sofa. He folded his hands in his lap, bowing his head a bit in a show of something akin to submission.

John brushed his index finger over his lips in a hushing manner, then gestured as if to say _I’m tucking Rosie in bed_. Sherlock nodded.

John returned some minutes later, flopped himself on his signature chair, and let out a deeply tired sigh.

“Long day?” said Sherlock.

Sherlock pre-John—as he had come to call that phase of his life—would have scoffed at the idea of small-talk, or avoiding the bits that actually mattered. He would have vehemently discarded the very notion, ripped through John with deduction after deduction, telling him the story of his entire day in the spool of thread on his shirt or the stain on the seam of his pants. He would have been vicious and savagely focused, with the concentration of a flamethrower. He would have pushed John until the man either pushed back or retreated into himself.

Post-John Sherlock, the one in the here and now, felt so incredibly small and faraway. He feared saying anything more. He would rather avoid the altercation from yesterday than ever broach the subject again.

John looked at him, almost suspiciously. “Do you really have to ask? I’m sure it’s obvious to you.”

_He’s not going to ask about your day in return, if that’s what you thought. Silly thing, you._

Sherlock’s hands tightened minutely in his lap. “Yes, but I thought I’d ask about your day. Friends do that.”

Something foreign and indecipherable swathed over John’s face. His eyes seemed to flicker with a differing emotion from moment to moment, then eventually settled on uncertainty. “Not you,” said John, with an expression Sherlock had never seen.

_Because you don’t want to hear what I have to say._

It was quiet for several beats before John spoke again.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Sherlock’s head snapped to attention. He looked at John’s eyes and mouth, hands, posture—any indication that he was being deceitful—and found nothing but a startling amount of sincerity.

“For yesterday,” John clarified, clearing his throat. “I got frustrated with you, and that was unfair of me. I was worried and you were being...you.” He waved his hand in the air in an all-encompassing gesture, as if the meaning of his words was clearly evident. “Sulky and standoffish. God, you were actually _worrying_ me, y’know?” He licked his lips. “You were coiled up like a spring. And I just sort of snapped because I felt helpless. That’s no excuse for the things...that I said to you. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

Sherlock blinked, staring blankly at the space just above John’s left shoulder.

“I know things have been...strained recently,” John continued, fiddling with the arm of the chair, worrying the fabric between his fingers. “And Christ, I want us to _talk_ again. Even if you insult me, or tell me to leave you alone, or verbally _eviscerate_ me. You’ve just been so bloody quiet. You won’t tell me what’s wrong, but something obviously is.”

John’s expression was imploring, but not in the way Molly’s had been. Molly had been inquisitive, allowing Sherlock to go at his own pace. John was desperate, crazed in his manner of inquiry, almost as if demanding Sherlock to tell him.

“What’s wrong?” said John, softer, and Sherlock suddenly felt like crying.

This wasn’t fair, thought Sherlock petulantly. _How can I possibly explain that_ you _are what’s wrong? How can you expect me to possibly lasso my thoughts and assemble them into anything even vaguely resembling a coherent response?_

What hurt Sherlock most was that he could _see_ everything. He wasn’t like everyone else who needed to ask how someone was feeling, who needed to be told the lines in between; rather, he was someone who noticed. And right now, staring at John—his glassy eyes, furrowed brow, hands bunched in his jumper, anxiously biting his lip—he could _see_ the sincerity of John’s concern clinging to every feature. The intensity of it was disturbing, after such a long reprieve from John’s affections. The worst part, thought Sherlock, was that John _wasn’t_ lying, wasn’t feigning, or inquiring in the way people sometimes do just to be polite.

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, because lying was easier—but his voice broke on the word. “I told you already.”

John’s response to this was much different from yesterday. “I _know_ you, Sherlock.” _How can you possibly say that? We barely talk anymore._ “For all you pretend like you’re unaffected by the world, you are—deeply. I just want to share that burden with you.”

“Why do you care?” The _anymore_ went unvoiced.

John looked surprised at that. “Because you’re my bloody best friend, is why. Why _wouldn’t_ I care?”

_Because I’m not worth it. I’m a difficult person. I want to die, and you don’t need that in your life. Why are you acting like you care now? You hated me yesterday, the day before, the past few months. Can’t you go back to hating me so I can just kill myself? How am I supposed to follow through when you’re looking at me like there are stars on my breath—like how you used to?_

“People change,” Sherlock said, carefully. An itch was building in his mind, steadily; something he couldn’t see, couldn’t scratch. “It cannot be denied that we don’t...interact as harmoniously as we once did.” The words felt like physical barbs as he spoke, rendering the inside of his mouth raw. “I thought, perhaps, you...would no longer consider me your best friend. That you were attempting to find a new flat somewhere else to take Rosie.”

“Christ, Sherlock.” John spoke with such hefty exaggeration and incredulity, as if the very notion enclosed in Sherlock’s words was an unfounded and foolish one. Sherlock noticed things about people—things people rarely even noticed about themselves—and John’s whole countenance seemed to collectively indicate he was unhappy living in Baker Street. John constantly appeared tired and worn out, took Rosie away as often as he could justify so she was nowhere near Sherlock’s presence; he left the flat almost as quickly as he could, disappeared for hours at a time, even on his days off. John acted as if Sherlock had said something unforgivably ignorant, when really hadn’t he hit the nail on the head?

John rubbed a hand over his haggard face. “I wasn’t planning on it...unless you wanted me to?”

“No!” The word had left his mouth without thought. He was only surprised was all, not disappointed, by the admission. He quickly backtracked, said gently, “If moving interests you, then I will not deter you from that course. But...I enjoy your company, as well as Rosie’s. I know this probably isn’t what you imagined as your future when you were in the army, but I _do_ consider you my family. I thought I had made that astoundingly clear.”

For as much as John’s presence sent anxiety and uncertainty rippling through Sherlock’s body, there was also nowhere else Sherlock could imagine himself. Either John and Rosie remained or Sherlock would return to living alone. It would be agonizing and lonely, but no one would ever be able to replace John. He had become a permanent fixture in Baker Street.

Sherlock would return to his life pre-John—he would solve cases alone, to prove to someone that he’s clever; he would wait for praise which would never come; he would walk into Scotland Yard without a partner; he would play the violin at night; he would keep body parts in the fridge; he would annoy everyone with his antics; he would shoot up in the bathroom; he would get reprimanded by Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson because they would be the only people aware of the squalor he’s living in. It hadn’t been a glamorous existence, but he was content with it once: he could learn to be content with it again.

John’s voice cut through the haze: “I’m not going anywhere.” His hand, warm and calloused and familiar, rested gently atop Sherlock’s shoulder. “Just because things are different now doesn’t mean we should give up on each other. We’ll muddle our way through somehow.”

Where did this come from?

Sherlock was gripped with grief and elation in equal measure. In that moment, soul-sucking and crushing, two thoughts simultaneously came to him: _I just want to curl up alone in the bathroom, get high, forget this conversation_ — _but I would give up the smack and coke in an instant if it guaranteed that you would never leave me, that you would look at me with love again._ He suddenly felt guilty for still _wanting_ to get high, but wanted the high of the drugs to forget his guilt. He knew that would only lead to vicious self-hatred and no progress, but shooting up for comfort was an old friend. It made sense to do it; he could fade away from his body, relax, forget reality, and push everyone away all at once. He could be alone and guarantee that no one wanted to stay with him—that he would never drag anyone down.

_Feel guilty for doing drugs, do drugs not to feel guilty, feel guilty afterwards, repeat._

Sherlock swallowed, hard. He itched for an escape from this conversation like he itched for a case to numb his boredom. His skin tingled. _John wouldn’t want to stay if he knew your activities. You’re damaged goods. What would he want to do with you?_

“Okay,” was all Sherlock said: this was not at all how he wanted to respond, but could think of nothing more fitting. John smiled back at him, a little reassuring quirk of lips Sherlock had been longing for, but that somehow seemed misplaced.

“Sure you’re alright?” John said skeptically.

“Positively,” lied Sherlock, and smiled for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to post this thing. My life has been very hectic recently, going on vacation, then just getting my license and preparing to start school. I have a lot of ideas for this story and one main endgame, but I was very wishywashy about what should happen next. Let me know what you guys think of this chapter.


	8. Tenderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, long time no see. So I know I haven’t posted in like a month, but I really just haven’t had time to write at all these past several weeks. I’m definitely still gonna finish this story, and I’ve got a lot of ideas for it which I just gotta build up to. School and work and college applications have just got in the way. I’ll try to begin updating somewhat regularly again!

Sherlock didn’t shoot up again that night. The conversation with John had burdened him with a renewed layer of guilt. It clung to him like a second skin, forced him to settle on the couch cushions and attempt to sleep restlessly. The stash called to him still, desire skirting along his skin and slithering through his veins. He patently remained on the couch, determined to sleep, to be stronger than his urges.

He lay for a long time with his eyes closed. John had retired to bed hours ago, yet Sherlock still lay awake, haunted by the demons of his past, the reality of his present, and the uncertainty of his future. He counted his breaths—in, out, in, out—focusing on the rise and fall of his chest. The clock ticked indefinitely from above the doorway. Goosebumps raised along his arms, uncovered and folded against his chest. His heels dug into the deflated cushions, toes tucked in the space between the cushion and the arm of the sofa. Guilt and wanting mingled in his blood—boiled beneath his skin. An almost imperceptible tremor laced his body and a cold sweat broke out on his brow; he felt the beading droplets of perspiration, darted out his tongue to taste the briny flavor.

He startled when he heard a noise coming from the staircase; he stilled.

Phantom light seeped through and illuminated the insides of his closed eyelids. Fabric shuffled against the linoleum kitchen tiles; cabinetry opened and closed, faucet turning on then off. There was a brief reprieve, a tense moment where Sherlock remained stiffly coiled on the sofa and no sound permeated the flat. Then, he felt movement at his back.

A warm weight settled on his shoulder, rubbing shapes into his clavicle. Sherlock simultaneously wanted to leap from his skin and melt into John’s—because _of course_ it was John’s—familiar touch.

After a moment, Sherlock became used to the gentle touch, relaxing into its presence and letting out a low, almost imperceptible hum in appreciation. Another weight then moved to the crown of his head: fingers skirted over his scalp, scratching gently and stroking through coarse hairs. A low almost-purr escaped Sherlock, who altered his position slightly to accommodate John’s presence. Tentative, tender peals of laughter chimed in response, eventually petering out into a sobering silence.

“You look so peaceful like this.” More petting, fingers shakily smoothing down unruly hair. “You don’t have that little dent in your brow.”

The gentle fingers moved away after a moment; Sherlock almost verbally keened at the loss. Relief inundated him when the warm presence returned, this time to the small of his back. Hands kneaded his tense muscles, firmly enough to be tangible but not so roughly to alert him to their presence—if he hadn’t already been awake.

Sherlock could almost picture the disapproving frown in John’s voice when he said: “You’re getting too thin again.” A finger prodded at a protruding rib through his paper thin shirt. “You’re looking quite pale too.”

The hand shifted to his forehead. “You might have a bit of a fever.” There was a terse pause, followed by a drawn-out sigh. “Why do you never take care of yourself? If you don’t be careful, you’ll kill yourself one day.”

 _That’s the plan_ , thought Sherlock, though something like guilt seemed to sour the idea. He shifted as one would subconsciously in their slumber, letting his hand curl slightly over John’s extended arm.

“Christ, you’re so beautiful,” said the smiling voice.

Chaos erupted in Sherlock’s head. _This is just a dream. I must be coming down with something; this is all in my head, I’ll wake up and things will still be the same. John is only saying any of this right now because I want him to. Maybe I can will him away now so I can finally rest._

Sherlock tried to remove John’s presence with the same sheer force of will it might have taken to conjure it. Yet John still stayed stubbornly rooted to his side, hands always touching, words always tender.

“I hate the way things are now. Things used to be so simple.” Heavy breathing; tightening of John’s hand. “I remember when I first met you. You were like a bloody hurricane—either I made way for you or I perished. You were like a ticking time bomb, like a...like a child with a handgun. You were so brilliant yet so stupid sometimes: it was endearing. You were so,” a small unintelligible noise, “frustratingly endearing.”

 _Make it stop_ , Sherlock cried out—but no words came.

“You grew on me way too quickly. It should have been disconcerting, but I was having way too much fun to notice.” A calm, contented laugh. “We would go out on cases all day, then order takeaway; and you would do your crazy experiments while I read the paper and watched crap telly. It was invigorating, and silly, and so…unrealistic.”

“I guess I had to wake up from that dream eventually. Reality was calling me, even though I’d managed to evade it for some time.” A long, heady pause. “You died. That's where it ended: that’s when it should have ended, but I could never stop thinking about you. Even with Mary—and I felt so awful for it—I _longed_ for you.”

 _Stop it_ , Sherlock screamed. _You’re lying. Stop lying—make it stop._

Sherlock could discern the wetness of incoming tears in John’s voice when he next spoke: “I’ve done some horrible, pisspoor things to you. I’m so terrible at expressing my gratitude and my love and my regret. It was so easy to blame you for all the bad things I was feeling: to blame you for leaving me behind, and for ruining my life, and for killing Mary. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t think you can ever forgive me. I’ll certainly never be able to forgive myself.”

“Christ, I’ve been such a shit friend. I’m sorry, Sherlock. You must think I hate you...I don't deserve you.”

_Don’t you?_

There the fingers were again, on his face now. They danced over his eyelids, rubbing against the hollow of his cheekbone. He wanted so vehemently to grapple onto John like a buoy in the vast ocean, to hurdle through life, wherever it may take him, with John and Rosie strung along to his side.

The warmth vanished as John retracted his hand. Sherlock’s mind was scratching itself raw with grief and wanting and guilt.

_How can you say you don’t deserve me? How can you say all that? How can you think I don’t want you—that I hate you? It’s you that hates me. It’s me that doesn’t deserve you. How can you be so blind?_

This was all uttered in his own head: John didn’t hear him. The lights in the kitchen flickered off.

However, before Sherlock heard John’s familiar gait on the stairs, a featherlight kiss was pressed to the center of his forehead. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” was mumbled into the inky darkness of the flat before John returned to his room upstairs.

* * *

Sherlock couldn’t hope to sleep the remainder of the night. John’s words and touch still lingered like a permanent brand, as if they had been seared into his soul. Hopes and wanting flared in his chest, fanned by the dawning possibility that, perhaps, John didn’t hate him. Perhaps he wasn’t actually such a bad influence on his best friend after all.

Much to Sherlock’s disappointment and chagrin, nothing changed after that night. Days went on with Sherlock expecting John to mention something, to act differently than he had before, to be less protective of Rosie; no such changes came.

John still awkwardly shuffled about the flat. He still seemed to be strangled by indecision and discomfort. He would still leave Baker Street for hours at a time—when he had no shifts at the clinic—without Rosie. Not once did he ever explain to Sherlock the subject of his ministrations, or the location to which he was traveling. It left a taste like soot in Sherlock’s mouth, made something roil beneath his ribcage. He felt nauseous and uneasy, like his mental turmoil was listlessly affecting his physicality. Then again, John didn’t owe him anything really: his indifference stung, but it couldn’t be helped.

Sherlock still woke up early in the morning and sat in the living room with John and Rosie, quieted by things unspoken and an awkwardness which had never existed before his own death. John still left for the clinic, and always brought Rosie with him to go to Molly’s or Mrs. Hudson’s. Sherlock would still immediately shoot up in the bathroom with the instruments Mycroft had given him, then usually pass out either on the loo or the ratty sofa. He would still awaken feeling worse than when he had fallen asleep, mouth dry and eyes puffy, quivering and alone. He would still seldom eat or drink—instead he angrily scratched notes on his violin and filled up his time with fleeting fantasies.

John always appeared as if there was something he needed to say. Even on the off occasion where he was reading in his signature chair, or making two mugs of tea for them both—something which still made Sherlock incredibly warm despite himself—his face was marred with the consternation and absentmindness of someone lost in thought. Sherlock never pried, even when he saw the deliberation in his friend’s expression; even when he saw his foot tap absently or his tongue anxiously wetting his lips. Every time it seemed like there was an unspoken song in John’s expression, he tried to tamp down the hope that maybe something would finally change.

He started taking on cases again, when everything got to be too much, when John’s avoidance and distance—or in some cases, when his presence—made him feel as unwanted as his childhood peers’ words had; when simply shooting up wasn’t enough to rid him of his own inadequacy. Cases, in all honesty, were the only thing keeping him from overdosing. The only other thing he could think of would be intimacy with John, and that was a very far fetched thing indeed: so, cases it was.

No one visited Baker Street; not Molly, or Lestrade, or even Mycroft. John and Rosie only seemed to stay as long as was necessary. John would often return from the clinic and never take off his coat or shoes, as if he expected to up and leave within a few moments. Sherlock silently prayed that he would make himself at home, then became overwhelmingly relieved when John changed into his pajamas and readied for bed.

It was a solitary existence. He felt like a lighthouse perched on a craggy hill, or an island nestled in some far corner of the world. It felt as if he was submerged in water, like everything was far away and unattainable.

Sherlock continued shooting up. Heroin was his only solace, only consolation—only company. He was reminded, startlingly, of his life before John. With John absent as often as he was, and Rosie constantly off somewhere, he had ample time and space. He never felt pressured to finish quickly. Languidly draped on the toilet seat, arm outstretched and laid across the rim of the bathtub, Sherlock often lazed in the confines of the bathroom. Blue veins scintillating in the bright bathroom lights, pallor of his skin sickly, his eyes peered at the ceiling, fixed on a crack or a blemish. He was enraptured by life for a while, euphoric, riding the high until he sobered again. He took a nosedive back into reality, injected some more just to feel that rush again, just to blind himself.

It was all fine. _Everything is under control._

Even if Sherlock and John never talked about anything warm, never gazed at each other like they used to, never went on cases, never got mistaken for a couple—which somehow stung just as deeply as everything else—it had to be okay. Sherlock had grown, over many years, very adept at hiding his own feelings. It’s not that he didn’t experience any, as his peers had taunted, but that he found it was excruciating to ever let his full breadth of feeling exist. He tucked his emotions into a dark back room of his Mind Palace.

He and John didn’t speak; Lestrade asked about Sherlock on cases, but was met with lies and falsehoods; Mycroft continued breathing down Sherlock’s neck, as was his wont, and his only way to express his caring; Mrs. Hudson padded around the flat, attempting to shoo him out like you would a bat with a broom, but Sherlock clung to Baker Street—his one true safe haven—with incredible tenacity and irritating stubbornness.

This was all routine. If he thought of it like that, instead of like failure, then it might not hurt so much.

Sherlock was wrong. It still hurt—everything hurt. He was a difficult person.

_No one will ever love you. Especially not John. It will never happen._

He cried and tried to delude himself into thinking he was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there’s a reason behind John’s actions. Only somewhat logical to anyone but him. I know this chapter might seem like a lot more description than usual, but I’m trying to build up the tension for now.


	9. Support

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I know it’s been a while...again...but uh, here’s the next chapter. I really will try updating somewhat regularly once again!

Sherlock lay in the bathroom like a dead thing. The bathtub was pressed along the length of his back, his elbows propped up on the lip of the tub. His legs were sprawled apart, feet vaguely encircling the loo. Dazedly, he pressed a new syringe into the most visible vein at the crook of his elbow, waiting for the pearls of blood to appear in the barrel before plunging the needle in completely.

He gasped, body arching then going flaccid. His head lolled back, harsh coolness of porcelain seeping into his temples. The world seemed to sway although he was slumped over, sat squarely on his bottom, and fixated on a singular point across from him.

A newfound invigoration surged through him, and he quickly tossed the syringe into the waste bin and tore the tourniquet from his arm.

He wasn’t quite sure how long he lay there. There were no windows in the bathroom to indicate the time of day. The only reason he realized how much time had passed was because he felt the withdrawal coming on.

Just as he was about to shoot up again, he heard a knock at the door.

Anxiety flared in his chest. _John isn’t supposed to be home yet surely? It hasn’t been_ that _long has it? Shit, shit, shit._

Sherlock started frantically grappling onto the bathroom vanity and looked himself over in the mirror. Track marks and scabs encircled his arms, which he yanked his sleeves over. The Stericup clattered as he practically threw the damn thing into the vanity cabinet, then shoved the filter and syringe baggie which he had thrown into the waste bin down further into the can, in hopes that John wouldn’t see it. _Shit._ The pallor of his skin, the constriction of his pupils, his flush—everything was practically a dead giveaway to a doctor who had been in practice for over fifteen years.

He opened the door with as much calm as he could muster only to be greeted by Mycroft. His pinhole thin pupils focused dazedly. _You’re getting rusty_ , Sherlock thought with a surge of newfound anger. _Paranoia is making you presumptuous. You’re not using evidence to make your conclusions._ He scrubbed a hand down his face, from temple to chin, sucking his teeth. _You’re being so_ stupid.

Before Sherlock could seethe at Mycroft’s invasion of his privacy, or for scaring him half to death—which was a very uncommon thing indeed—his brother proffered a little book. It had a latch that buttoned on the front and was leather bound and small, able to fit in an inner coat pocket or convenient place. The spine was becoming torn and flimsy while the pages were evidently yellowing from age. There, along the spine, it had John Watson’s signature inscripted, carved into the leather. Sherlock stared down at it in awed silence.

“Take it,” said Mycroft, pressing the book into Sherlock’s shaking hands. “All of John Watson’s therapy sessions—recorded in this journal.” Sherlock's eyebrows climbed into his hair, even though he wasn’t surprised by the admission—had come to the same conclusion when he first saw the book. “There’s information from his last several sessions in here that I think you may find...most interesting.”

It felt weak, and invasive, to look through the journal. Mycroft of course had no problem; if there was even a slight possibility that information gleaned about someone’s life could help in a particular situation, he would dredge up that information in a heartbeat. Sherlock, who liked to think he had stronger morals, felt itchy and squeamish at the prospect.

“Why…?” Sherlock slurred, trembling fingers running over the book’s spine. He fell back onto the lip of the tub, whole body trembling from a mixture of exhaustion and euphoria. “How did you get this? This is confidential information.”

Mycroft smirked in that self-possessed and smug way of his. “A wise man never tells,” he said, wagging his index finger.

Sherlock stared at the offending appendage with blurry vision. Perspiration slid down his temples, and he was made suddenly aware of the chill running down his back. “I can’t do it,” he mumbled, running reverential fingers over the leather-bound spine. He was shaking, from the drugs or something else he was uncertain. “He would...never forgive me if he found out...I would never forgive _myself_.”

“John doesn’t need to know,” Mycroft reminded, squinting his eyes. They focused on Sherlock, darting about and focusing closely on certain parts before mulling over some newfound piece of information. They seemed to peer through him. The gaze felt like an invasive stab to his abdomen; like a hot knife twisting in his stomach. Mycroft hummed thoughtfully before saying, “You look dreadful.”

Before Sherlock could bite back a scathing reply about his actual _peachiness,_ his body, which recently seemed to constantly be contradicting him, convulsed. He scrambled to the toilet and dry heaved, throat stinging with the stomach acid lurching from his throat. No food came up sans for some biscuits he had eaten several hours ago. The bile coated every inch of his mouth and throat—made him want to cut out his tongue, scrub his mouth clean, pull out his teeth with pliers. All that would somehow be less uncomfortable.

There was nothing left to throw up, but the amalgamation of the bile’s stench and the sight of it made him continue vomiting. His stomach clenched painfully, cleaving to his ribs with each heave. The cold porcelain of the loo chilled his hands, burning his skin like contact with ice.

 _Finally_ , after what felt like centuries, the need to heave abated. The papillae on his tongue were inflamed, swollen and stinging. His teeth tasted like hydrochloric acid and his throat had that dry and gummy taste of morning breath, like when you awoke from a slumber where you had been much too dehydrated.

Mycroft was still hovering over him, though his expression was now softened with a hint of concern. Sherlock only now felt the presence of fingers in his hair. They massaged at his scalp with a strange facsimile of love, hesitant and begrudging. “What am I going to do with you, brother mine?” said Mycroft, voice barely a whisper.

It took Sherlock several moments to gather enough energy to speak. “Take...the book,” he wheezed. The fingers in his matted fringe never ceased, but the touch grew less intense. Sherlock was shaking worse now then he had before, but he pushed the book across the floor steadfastly towards Mycroft’s pristine shoes regardless. “I...I can’t.”

“Very well,” said Mycroft. The book was plucked elegantly from the linoleum tiles. After confiscating it, Mycroft gently pushed Sherlock into a sitting position against the bathtub. He had a cloth in one hand, though from where Sherlock was unsure, and began gingerly dabbing at the spittle accumulating on Sherlock’s chin.

Sherlock was suddenly reminded of himself ten years younger, huddled in a drug den, close to overdosing; surrounded by strangers and syringes—comforted by that—only for Mycroft to somehow track him down. He would pull him into his black sedan and bring him back to Baker Street with the most tenderness he was capable of displaying; he would give Sherlock fluids and some saltines to eat, wash his face gently with a cloth. He would force him to shower and get a fresh set of clothes, then to brush his teeth and rest in bed for a while. Mycroft stayed even when the withdrawals began, would give Sherlock soup and pile blankets over his shivering form; put a cold damp cloth on his forehead when he developed a fever later on.

“There we are,” Mycroft said, patting Sherlock’s kneecap. “Here,” he said, offering a hand which was begrudgingly taken. He pulled Sherlock to his feet, steadying him in front of the vanity. “Brush your teeth—it’ll make you feel better.”

Sherlock did as he was told, his usual stubbornness and indignation drained. He lathered toothpaste onto the bristles and brushed vigorously, so much so that his gums began to bleed and his tongue felt raw. He scrubbed and scrubbed but the taste and smell of bile seemed to cling to him. All the brushing seemed to do was irritate his mouth worse; and the fluoride of the toothpaste made his stomach roil with a renewed wave of nausea.

“Steady now,” said Mycroft, hands on either of Sherlock’s shoulders. He gently pried the toothbrush from Sherlock’s quivering hands, rinsing it and putting it back in its cup. He said nothing further, merely guided his brother out of the bathroom and towards the sofa. He pushed him down into the cushions, silencing the protests with hushing, as if dealing with a child. “Stay here. I’m fetching you some water and a bowl in case you have another...accident.”

Sherlock buried himself under a bundle of covers which had been resting on the top of the sofa. His nose was running and his stomach felt knotty. It was agony to sit still, so he repeatedly tossed and turned, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.

Mycroft returned to find Sherlock rolling around on the couch. He deposited the glass of water on the end table, along with a small pack of saltines to help settle his stomach. He also placed the promised bowl on the floor next to the couch, then surprisingly sat himself on the coffee table across from Sherlock.

“Thank you,” said Sherlock past a lump in his throat. He was still fiercely uncomfortable and craving heroin, but this was as cozy as he could possibly feel. “You needn’t attend to me any longer. You’ve got more...important things to do.” He fiddled with the saltine packet and opened it, taking small nibbles from the cracker. “I’m not a child that needs coddling.”

Mycroft smirked, much more himself now that the most worrying of Sherlock’s behavior had passed. “I beg to differ,” he said, crossing his legs and gesturing to Sherlock’s prone form: he looked like a bedridden child with a mother who had waited on him hand-and-foot.

Sherlock scowled, but the look lacked its usual heat. Mycroft only simpered, satisfied, then made his way to the front door. “Well, brother mine, I hate to leave so soon, but I have business matters to which I must attend.” He sounded genuinely remorseful, even going so far as to allow the smug smile to fall away. “I will, of course, return your calls if you need me in the meantime. I’m also taking your stash to insure you don’t cave in.”

Sherlock only nodded, silently grateful. “Have fun with your ‘business matters’.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes but had a somewhat fond look. Then, he walked down the stairwell and left Sherlock to withdraw alone.


	10. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! Out within less than two weeks of the last chapter!

Sherlock, several hours later, was still draped over the couch. Goosebumps were raised along his skin, cold and tingling flashes trailing over his entire body. He felt nauseous, like something was sloshing around in his stomach every time he tossed or turned. After several hours with no vomiting, he had finally eaten some of the saltines Mycroft had given him and managed to keep them down. He drank some water too, even felt a little better. After that, he had pushed the bowl beneath the end table in expectancy of John’s arrival.

Not very much later, footsteps sounded and John, soon after, shuffled into the living room. His eyes landed on Sherlock for a moment, sweeping up and over the expanse of his form, as if in silent questioning. However, he had a sleeping Rosie cradled in his arms, which prevented him from speaking. He quickly made a simple gesture before heading off to, presumably, tuck Rosie into bed.

He returned moments later, questioning still evident on his face. “You feelin’ alright?” he inquired, gesturing at Sherlock’s prone form and the swaddle of blankets. “You look a bit peaky. Have you eaten yet?” he said.

“I think I’m alright,” he responded, but his voice came out just a bit too strained to be convincing. Honestly, very little about him looked convincingly “okay”. He was sure a doctor as adept as John could tell without much effort that he was, at the very least, experiencing flu-like symptoms. “Only ate some saltines. Couldn’t keep anything else down,” said Sherlock. The thought of eating hadn’t been very appealing since his withdrawal began. Heroin always managed to unsettle his stomach, obliterate whatever small appetite he had to begin with. “Not very hungry.”

John hummed in response. He padded into the kitchen, presumably to make a cup of tea.

Sherlock settled into the couch, steepling his hands under his chin. There was a haphazard restlessness building at the base of his skull. It felt as if maggots had niggled their way under his skin, burrowed and worked themselves into his innards; it elicited the same sort of gut wrenching disgust and skin-crawling sensation as would the stench of offal. He wasn’t sure if the feeling was the direct result of withdrawal or rather the thought that John might be close to figuring him out.

“Here,” said John several minutes later, returning with two mugs ensconced in his hands. The sight made something loosen in Sherlock’s stomach. Tea, over the past few weeks, had become an olive branch of sorts.

Sherlock took the drink with shaking fingers. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, a vague sense of deja vu nipping at the edges of his vision. This exchange seemed to bring every image of John from the past several years to mind, swelling in his head—John in the early morning after a shower, John cradling Rosie in his strong arms, John brewing tea, John slanted against the wall and laughing in a way neither of them had in a _very_ long time.

“Been on any cases lately?” said John, surprisingly settling himself across from Sherlock in his signature chair. His eyes seemed omniscient and peering, as if trying to gauge Sherlock. The question seemed genuine, as if he was actually interested in hearing an honest answer, but it also seemed to double as eavesdropping.

“No,” he said, taking a meager sip of his tea. “The world has been...annoyingly decent. It’s dreadful.”

John chuckled slightly. It wasn’t perfunctory or feigned, which made Sherlock sit up straighter on the sofa. Somehow, after so long of John treating him so shortly, his behavior right now was putting Sherlock on edge. Christ, it was so much more preferable to walking on eggshells and dancing around one another—but Sherlock had forgotten how to be genuine. He suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“Better for me,” John said, leaning his chin in his free hand. “I’m getting a bit too old. One day I’m afraid I’ll faint on a case.”

They seemed to be avoiding the glaringly obvious fact that John hadn’t been on a case in a very long time. “You aren’t _that_ old,” Sherlock assured, sounding hesitant despite himself. “I wouldn’t even bring you on a case if I suspected you were going to keel over and die—too many people would look to me as the murder suspect.”

John smiled. It hinted at the warmth John used to show whenever he praised Sherlock; how he looked at Sherlock like he was the Sun and said his name like a prayer. It felt like old times, for a moment. Rosie was fast asleep, tucked in her bed; Mary, with some regretfulness, was no longer present; John and he were both living back in Baker Street. It was almost as if the past several years had never happened. Sherlock could pretend that they had somehow been living together peacefully for years, that nothing had changed since they first met.

The only problem was that it was so obviously false.

“You’re right,” said John, depositing his mug on the end table. “Donovan and Anderson would point fingers straight away.”

“Quite,” said Sherlock, smile tremulous. As often as John liked to joke and posture that Sherlock was insensitive and unfeeling, he very carefully chose his words. He didn’t wish to disturb _whatever_ this moment was, especially when the feeling at the core of this interaction screamed so closely of the thing they had lost, that had been lacking for some time. He felt so incredibly infinitesimal in this moment: so lost. What was he supposed to say? Where did the conversation go from here?

_How have we gotten like this? How have I forgotten how to navigate the waters of our friendship?_

“Listen, Sherlock,” John’s voice broke through his musing.

John’s posture grew rigid, jaw tightening. The familiarity that had been present seconds ago fell away, and Sherlock felt even less secure than he already had moments ago. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you, for a long while actually.”

Sherlock hummed, hoping it could cover up his growing unease. Talking about things, as John had put it, was something they had never been good at. They were both too sporadic, too frantic, too damaged and brutal. There was an unspoken fragility to both of them, a quality that, if exposed, made them easy to shatter and hard to mend. No, talking about things was not in their nature and often over complicated things that were already too emotionally complex for Sherlock to accurately comprehend.

John pursed his lips, shifted his legs, then settled his hands in his lap. He fiddled with a loose spool of thread on the hem of his jumper.

“Listen, when I…” He seemed to be warring with some great affliction. “When I hurt you, at the hospital—“

Sherlock felt bile rising, burning along the length of his throat. He prayed he wouldn’t need to use the bowl tucked behind the leg of the end table—hoped there wouldn’t be a second fit of vomiting today.

“That was...that was _not okay_.” John raised the back of his hand to his mouth, resting his chin on his knuckles. His hands were clenched into such tight fists that the skin was rendered white and pallid. “I was angry at myself most of all. I was...I blamed you for... _her_ death. I blamed you for _everything_ because I couldn’t bear to blame myself. I cheated on my wife, and I failed to protect her. And...I couldn’t deal with that. I put it all on you, and that was so, _so_ wrong of me.”

The familiar pressure of tears welled in Sherlock’s eyes. He rubbed at his face, hands shaking desperately, then ghosted them over the back of his head. He couldn’t discern anymore what his symptoms were due to: withdrawal, heartache, anxiety.

 _Everything is under control_.

John looked at him like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I know you may never forgive me. I certainly will never forgive myself.” He inhaled a large breath. “When I became a doctor, I _swore_ that I would never hurt anyone.” Self-loathing seemed to tighten around his neck like a noose; he pulled at the collar of his jumper as if attempting to free himself. “I decided to take anger management classes. I’ve been going to them for a few weeks now. I’ve also been seeing a new therapist.”

Sherlock felt surprisingly detached.

_Is this what I would’ve read in that book, had I taken it? Was this where John was all those times I thought he was avoiding me?_

“If I’ve been short with you lately, it’s not something you’ve done wrong. I’m trying to deal with my demons, as they say.”

Sherlock was a difficult person. He had heard it said in a variety of fashions, on a variety of occasions, from a variety of acquaintances. To hear that it wasn’t something he had done seemed like a lie in and of itself. After all, John was the only person who could tolerate him. Shouldn’t he be grateful John had stuck around so long? The beating had been well-deserved, hadn’t it? He didn’t think John unjustified—if anything, he was lucky that was the only time John had ever assaulted him.

“I forgive you,” said Sherlock, seriously, without hesitation. He clenched and unclenched his hands in the fabric of his ratty pajamas, trying to find solace in something.

John blanched at him, paper thin. “You don’t have to pretend, Sherlock. What I did was inexcusable.”

“I’m not lying. I _do_ forgive you. I’ve been told I’m a difficult person. I’m surprised you never wanted to do worse.”

The color seemed to drain from John’s face. His brow furrowed, eyes crinkled around the edges. “Nobody should do that to anybody else,” he said finitely, steel edging into his voice. He seemed wildly convicted of the position he had voiced. “You _shouldn’t_ forgive me. Sherlock—you shouldn’t let anyone abuse you. Even people who say they care— _especially_ them,” John said with a wince.

Abuse, thought Sherlock, that hadn’t been abuse. A wake up call, certainly. He had grown accustomed to John’s caring and while, yes, the blows had been painful, and unbidden, and uncharacteristic of John’s nature, it hadn’t been abusive.

_Had it been?_

Christ, his thoughts were getting tangled. Even if perhaps it _had_ been abusive, which really he didn’t think it was— _I would have noticed, right_ —he would still forgive John, because he was Sherlock Holmes and where John Watson was concerned, he could never seem to hold ill-will. John was his conduit, his conductor, his savior, his damsel—he was many things. _Abuser_ had never seemed like one of his roles. John had been grieving, and Sherlock was, after all, without fail, a difficult person. That’s what everyone said.

And why was John so adamant that he was unforgivable? Why would he not want Sherlock’s forgiveness? Shouldn’t he be leaping at the chance to have a clear conscience, rejoicing the fact that Sherlock was taking responsibility for some of the events that transpired?

“Okay,” Sherlock conceded, slowly, rattled and confused. His shaking hands came up to rest against his chest. “But really it’s—“

“Bloody hell!”

Suddenly John moved just a tad too quickly, flicked his wrist just a bit too aggressively, produced a noise just a bit too loudly. Sherlock flinched into the sofa, shielding his eyes for the briefest of moments in the simplest of instincts. John’s expression was laced with smoldering fury and intense reprehension.

“It wasn’t okay. You’re making me feel worse,” shouted John, expelling an unsteady breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “It was _wrong_. I feel sick to my stomach knowing I did that to you.”

Sherlock said nothing. It felt as if his heart was trying to squeeze its way out of his ribcage.

_Why is this happening? How has forgiving him went so wrong? I can’t even forgive someone the right way._

Something in John’s expression shifted and grew weary. After another moment, sadness folded into his face, distress pulling at his mouth. “Christ, Sherlock. I’m sorry—I’ve done it again. Look, I’m not mad at you.” John’s face made it obvious he would mentally chastise himself later in due measure. “I’m mad that I’ve somehow made you believe that you _deserved_ what I did to you.”

“Didn’t I?” said Sherlock.

“No, you didn’t,” said John. “That’s it, nothing more to it. I’ve already been going to the classes, and seeing the therapist—that’s the end of it.”

Sherlock nodded, for ultimately it was John’s decision to continue with such things. He couldn’t deny that some of the tension drained from his shoulders, that something warm and affectionate flowered in his stomach at the news that John had started an endeavor wanting to better himself—that when he was disappearing off to somewhere that he wasn’t doing so out of hatred, but out of...love? Whether the apology was due or not, it felt nice to receive it—it meant that John still cared for him, deep down, that maybe their relationship wasn’t so irreparable as he had once thought.

Ultimately, though, his guilt only grew stronger now. It was easier to obliterate himself when it seemed like John would be amenable to it, but now—now it felt like a wrong-doing, like a child disobeying their parents, perhaps unknowingly. Something heady and intense built low in his gut.

At that moment, Sherlock threw up—unceremoniously—into his lap.

“Christ!” yelled John, who leaped from his chair. He bounded away into the kitchen, muttering the whole way.

Sherlock heaved and heaved, spittle stringing from his lips and dripping into his lap. His eyes and throat burned. He felt like scratching his skin raw, felt like flinging himself from some horrible height just to fucking end everything right now. He couldn’t even stop being a failure for a few minutes, couldn’t pull himself together to prove that he was alright—even if he wasn’t _actually_ alright. Within the span of one conversation, he had managed to anger John first by forgiving him, and now by ruining the sofa.

_Useless. Can’t do anything right. Why would John ever want you?_

“Hey, hey,” John cooed, brandishing a wet cloth and carrying a bucket with soapy water. After placing the bucket next to the couch, he pulled gently at Sherlock’s sleeves, prying his hands from where they were pressed against his chest. Squeezing, he gently ran his thumbs over Sherlock’s knuckles. “Here, shift this way a bit.”

Sherlock did as John said, hoping he could at least be _obedient_ without fucking something up. John came up behind him, pulling at the neckline of Sherlock’s jumper. He peeled the fabric up from Sherlock’s waist over his head, pulling it straight up as to keep the shirt right-side out and avoid getting the vomit everywhere. He laid the article on the floor, all the while with Sherlock shivering and clutching at the hem of his pants.

The back of a hand was pressed to his forehead. “You’re warm,” John said, voice noticeably soft. He pulled at Sherlock’s hand again, shifting him so his legs were hooked over the front of the couch. “Here.” He gestured at the cuffs of Sherlock’s pants before tugging gently at the bottom of each leg, pulling them down until Sherlock was in nothing more than boxers and socks. The soaked pants were placed in the same pile as the shirt. “Go up and take a hot shower. I’ll clean up the mess.”

“John, I didn’t mean to—“

“Sherlock,” John said, sounding exasperated. “No one intends to throw up. You don’t need to explain yourself—just go take a shower.”

Sherlock’s cheeks burned red with humiliation: he felt like a child being reprimanded by their mother. _That’s all John sees you as—you’re a child in his eyes, someone he’s only obligated to take care of, who will never be anything more than a burden. He’ll never view you in the way you view him._

He stumbled up from the couch and dejectedly made his way to the bathroom. The hot knosel was turned on roughly before Sherlock stripped out of what little of his garments remained and simply stepped into the shower without minding the temperature.

The water scalded him. Rivulets rolled down his back, leaving irritated and raised skin in their wake. He scrubbed shampoo so viciously into his scalp that his hands began to cramp, lathered his body in so much bar soap that he feared he might tear off layers of precious skin. It was so ungodly hot and steam was billowing up in his eyes. When he began crying, he couldn’t tell at first with the mingling of water, heat, steam, and anguish. The crying felt so visceral, but he felt so empty at the same time. It felt as if his heart had been scooped out of his chest, as if there was some empty void that needed filling.

After a while, the combination of standing, withdrawal, and hot water caused him to fatigue, so he eventually sat against the shower wall. Water pelted his back as he sat on the floor of the shower, hugging his knees to his chest. His head was bowed between his legs as he closed his eyes against the steady stream of hot water, letting the tears fall in the quiet of the bathroom.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, curled into himself like a pathetic creature. It was only when someone knocked at the door that he raised his head from its hanging position and finally turned off the water, stepping out from the shower and wrapping a towel around his waist.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was muffled through the door. “I figured you didn’t grab any clothes, so I brought some for you.” Sherlock bit down on his tongue, drawing blood after a moment: it tasted like ash. “I finished cleaning the sofa already. Don’t be embarrassed: I’ve dealt with just as bad from some of my patients. I made you some tea and soup as well.”

Sherlock wanted to cry again, but refrained. No part of him wanted to see John at the moment, for fear that John's expression would betray the seeming easiness of his words. Images of John’s potential expression ran rampant through his head: lips curled in a sneer, brow narrowed with distaste, eyes squinted with scrutiny. He feared that John had reached his tether, that this event would finally set him off.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to find that John looked nothing like what he had imagined. Instead, his brow was actually softened with concern. Sherlock’s favorite pair of pajamas was tucked in the crook of John’s elbow, along with a blanket Sherlock recognized as John’s most favorite.

“I grabbed you the blanket too,” he said. “I figured we can both watch some telly so you can rest and I can keep an eye on you.”

Sherlock felt cotton mouthed, throat pinhole thin. He nodded minutely, reaching for the clothes and taking them with shaking fingers. “Thank you,” he said, though he felt like he was suffocating. Everything felt wrong, strained—like at any moment something would crack. He was expecting ire and yelling and rage. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Sure,” said John, “I’ll be waiting for you.” He smiled in what was probably intended to be a reassuring way, settling a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Just take your time.”

He then strode away, closing the bathroom door gently on his way out. Sherlock immediately sank to the floor and bowed his head in his hands.

 _Why is he acting so nice? What just happened?_ It didn’t make any sense, thought Sherlock. _He must be really mad—so mad he won’t express it until he has your full attention._

“Fuck,” Sherlock sobbed.

In that moment, he wished he didn’t have a heart with John Watson’s name inscribed on it—wished he had never met John at all. Wished for his old life where he thought he couldn’t amount to anything greater than what he already was.


	11. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I’m back...finally! Sorry, I had a bad case of the flu and then coming back to school I was in a bit of a slump. But I have returned!

After dressing slowly into the pajamas John had brought him, inspecting his gross stubble, sunken-in eyes, and haphazard hair in the mirror—all the while his mind constantly buzzing with negative thoughts about how the coming conflict with John would go—Sherlock felt no less prepared to return to the living room. If anything, his resolve was wearing thinner and thinner like the fabric of a sweater which had seen too much use.

But alas, staying in the bathroom would only rouse John’s suspicion. If he didn’t turn up sooner or later, John would find him regardless. So, after staring at the doorknob as if perhaps it held some greater importance, and biting against his already bitten down fingernails, he eventually opened the door.

He entered the living room with static pillowing his head. Everything seemed to be swimming as if his world was submerged in water. John was perched on the floor, blanket draped over his lap. A bowl of soup and a mug of tea were paired on the coffee table behind him as promised, steam billowing forth, warming the air. John’s eyes flickered upon seeing him, and Sherlock almost visibly flinched— _almost_ —when he raised his arm in greeting.

“I was starting to worry,” John half-laughed, smile going slanted. Sherlock couldn’t detect if it was genuine or joking. “Come and sit down.” He patted the space next to him gently, as if in invitation. “We can watch whatever you want. I know you like that Jeremy Kyle Show.” He scoffed as if he didn’t quite understand the fascination but the prospect of watching said show was bearable if it was in the name of Sherlock’s amusement. “Whatever you want,” he said again with that crooked smile still present.

Sherlock was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. The openness to John’s expression, the...warmth in his eyes; the curve of his smile and the fact that he was pressed into the couch, already taking care of and willing to continue taking care of him: it was all too good to be true. What made him deserving of any of this, especially after John had just been angry with him, when he had just thrown up on the sofa? Wasn’t John seething, just waiting to wrap his hands around Sherlock's throat and throttle him? None of it added up; none of it made _sense._ When had his life stopped making sense, Sherlock mused.

“I don’t have a preference,” said Sherlock, approaching John like one might an unpredictable animal. He settled in the space next to him, ushered under and bundled in the swaddle of covers by John’s eager hands. It was nice, he found, to have a solid warmth engulfing him; not to mention that it was John’s ministrations which had resulted in the blanket’s positioning.

It was only after a moment that Sherlock realized John was watching him. There was a curiosity and a sort of intrigue to his gaze, measured and distant. It set something like anxiety aflame in Sherlock’s chest, made him fidget with the corner of the blanket and curl his arms ever tighter around his middle. John’s gaze elicited more heat in Sherlock’s face than the blanket strewn over his shoulders: he had to turn away after another moment, becoming uncomfortable under the intimate scrutiny.

A hand pressed against his forehead. “You’re burning up still,” said John, brow furrowing. He reached around and grabbed the bowl of what looked to be chicken noodle soup from the table, brandishing it for Sherlock to take. “I’d suggest getting some food in you.”

The meat swirled in the salty broth, bobbing around amongst carrots and celery. Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Not to sound ungrateful, but the last thing I want to do is eat.”

John grimaced but looked as if he understood. “It’ll help with your fatigue. You’re shaking, Sherlock.”

He looked down blearily and found his fingertips humming with movement. Huh. They hadn’t been just a few moments ago, had they? “Vomiting makes the prospect of eating rather unappetizing,” he said in meek defense, shrugging his shoulders, tucking his hands into his lap to avoid looking at the gentle trembling.

“At least drink some tea.” John held out the mug, to which Sherlock took it with some hesitation. He had a small sip, noting the tang of lemon and the sweet syrupy characteristic of honey as the liquid slid down his throat. It was soothing, albeit uncomfortable. “What other symptoms do you have?”

Sherlock hummed past the lip of the mug. “Muscle aches, runny nose, stomach pain, lack of appetite—“ _Heroin cravings, you know, the usual._ He shifted uncomfortably, pressing further into the couch cushion. “It’s fine, John, really—“

“Sounds like the flu,” he said finitely, lips twitching into a frown. He relieved Sherlock of the tea once it seemed like he had gotten his fill, depositing the mug back on the coffee table. He then leaned back into the couch near Sherlock, looking him over with a piercing gaze. “You should rest.”

Sherlock’s eyes were already sliding closed, eyelids drawing shut like window blinds. Something warm and firm met his temple as he slipped further down. His cravings for heroin, though no less intense, were tempered by John’s presence and his immense exhaustion: there was no way he could procure more drugs in such a state, so he might as well reserve himself to _attempting_ to rest.

Suddenly hands were holding him by the face, guiding him ever further downwards. His eyes shot open just as his head was laid down in John’s lap. He looked up into his face, heart rate abruptly spiking. John seemed to loom over him, and there was something unsettling and powerful about his current position of dominance. But then his fingers were entangling in Sherlock’s hair and everything felt _right._ Fingernails scratched gently at his scalp, sending little chills down his spine. His overly sensitive skin seemed to pulse as John gently grabbed hold of his wrist and started stroking. His one hand still played with Sherlock’s hair in gentle motions.

It was heavenly.

Yet it felt wrong deep down. This type of affection was something John reserved for Rosie when she was beginning to fall asleep against him. It was reserved for Mary when she had still been alive, when her and John would be pressed close while they thought Sherlock couldn’t see them. This was reserved for John’s lovers—even the ones which had only lasted for days. John had no qualms with the affectionate gesture he was now displaying, but it had never been something he had done to Sherlock. It had never seemed strange given that Sherlock really wasn’t worthy of such adoration.

“John?” he said, voice too gentle to his own ears. What had happened to him? Where had abrasive, direct Sherlock gone—the one who would say whatever came to mind and who didn’t let anyone affect the way he felt about himself? Had that person ever even been real?

John hummed back lazily to indicate Sherlock had his attention as he flicked on the Jeremy Kyle Show. “Yeah?” he said, fingers still moving in gentle petting motions. “Something wrong?”

Sherlock suddenly seemed to lose the ability to speak. There was so much he _wanted_ to say, but it couldn’t seem to escape him. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, eyes closing so he didn’t have to see John’s expression.

It was quiet for a moment. “For what?” said John, fingers never ceasing. “I told you already, the couch is nothing to worry about, not like we don’t have our chairs. Hell, the floor is working just fine right now. And I already put your clothes in the washer, so it’s really no—“

“I meant for inconveniencing you,” Sherlock said past the lump in his throat. “I’m sure the last thing you want to do is take care of me while I’m in such a state. I really wouldn’t blame you if you went to bed. I know you’ve had a long day at the clinic, surely you haven’t eaten yet and probably just want to get to it.” He grimaced as the fingers in his locks finally stilled, body tensing beneath John’s calloused hands. _This is it_ , Sherlock thought, _I’ve made a mess of this again._

“Sherlock,” John said, firmly but not unkindly. “You aren’t a burden,” he assured, smoothing Sherlock’s fringe away from his head. “Hey, look at me.” The words were so gentle, so tender, that Sherlock could do nothing but obey. “I’m happy to take care of you. It makes _me_ feel good because I’m helping _you_ feel good. Got it?”

Something warm and fond bubbled up in Sherlock’s chest, made his heart feel featherlight. He couldn’t help the way he sank into John’s lap with a new sense of relief, the way he let his eyes open again and train on the television. “Did you mean what you said earlier?” He didn’t elaborate, too afraid to: instead he worried at the fabric of his pajama bottoms with restless fingers and pointedly looked anywhere but John’s face.

“Which part?” said John.

“All of it.”

John’s expression softened. “Every word,” he said, letting out a gentle sigh. “More than you know.” His hands now moved down lower towards Sherlock’s shoulder, softly tracing shapes into his skin. “I swear I’ll never hurt you again, Sherlock. I _promise_.”

Sherlock remained silent for several seconds before he said meekly, “Is that why you’re still here?”

“What?” John said, sounding genuinely confused. His body heat was radiating into Sherlock’s own, warming him invariably. It mingled with the warmth creeping up his neck in shame.

“You feel obligated to stay with me after what you did,” garbled Sherlock, tongue feeling thick as he spoke, as if it was puffy and rooted to the roof of his mouth. The familiar sting of tears nipped at his vision but he bit down on his lower lip to replace the distress with physical pain. “That’s why you stayed. You felt guilty because of what you did. You want a clear conscience.” He exhaled tiredly, keeping his gaze squarely on the television. “Well you already have my forgiveness. There’s nothing else you have to do so—“

“Be quiet, you git.”

Sherlock clammed up, feeling abruptly empty. His chest seemed to crack open like a yawning chasm. He felt short of breath, heart hammering against his hands where they were clasped in his lap. “I’m sorry—“

“Stop apologizing.” John said this softer, hand stilling its gentle movements and instead gripping his shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m here because I want to be: I’m here because _you’re_ here, and without you I’m…” He grimaced, pausing like he wasn’t really sure of the right word.

“Bored?” offered Sherlock.

John smiled sadly. “Broken,” he amended.

Sherlock simultaneously had the breath squeezed out of him and breathed back into him. He couldn’t fathom the words that had just left John’s mouth, the way they sounded exactly the same as his own if he was prompted with the same thought: how would you be without John? Broken was only ever the answer. John made him whole.

“Now hush,” said John, smile more genuinely content now than melancholic. “I’m trying to figure out the boy’s real father.”

In this moment, for the first time since John had moved back in—swaddled on the floor due to a vomit-soaked couch, equally sick with the flu and heroin cravings, a wreck and a failure—Sherlock thought that he and John were going to be okay.

He smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent literally two hours trying to put an image in this chapter because I did draw my own art, but I could not for the life of me get it to work. I was able to paste the image in the rich text, but wasn’t able to see it. I don’t know, man.


End file.
